


Annihilate Together

by LynnLarsh



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender, 四月は君の嘘 | Shigatsu wa Kimi no Uso | Your lie in April
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Music, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Illness, past trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-08-27 02:56:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 59,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8384536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LynnLarsh/pseuds/LynnLarsh
Summary: After a tragic event prior to his freshman year of college, Keith gives up on ever playing piano again.  That is, until Lance finds out about his hidden talents and begs him to accompany his violin jury.  It's hard to get rid of the guy after that.





	1. First Movement: Più Mosso

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kali_asleep](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kali_asleep/gifts).



> This is all thanks in large part to Kali_alseep and a recent rewatching of Kimi no Uso. I couldn't get the thought out of my head, so I put it here for you to suffer through with me. Enjoy!
> 
> più mosso – Indicates a change in tempo: more movement or faster. Literally: more motion. This change is usually sudden, as if indicating a new tempo.

_“In the Big Bang, we had equal amounts of matter and anti-matter, and as soon as they met each other, they annihilated together. And this battle played out whilst the universe expanded in its first minute of existence.”_  
_-Tara Shears, Professor of Physics at the University of Liverpool._

.x.X.x.

_The lights are too bright, his fingers stiff and not listening to what his brain is telling them to do. He shouldn’t have done this. Why did he do this? How did he get here?_

“Keith?”

 _The music doesn’t fit with the memory, but he can hear it underneath the fluidity, hear every single mistake he made, feel every moment all over again in every key that plays._

“Keith.”

_He shouldn’t have gone out there at all. He should have stopped playing a long time ago. Maybe then-_

The feel of a hand touching his arm is shocking, and his whole body straightens into startled, guilty tension. Shiro, as he probably has been for the last few minutes, stares at him from the other end of the table, a look of concern on his face that’s aggravatingly familiar.

“I’m fine,” Keith huffs, even though his fingers twitch when he moves his arm away from Shiro’s grasp. 

“Keith-” Shiro says his name again, this time with the promise of more conversation behind it, when he’s interrupted by the coffee shop’s solitary waitress. It’s not even their job to wait on customers here, but Shiro just has that sort of… magnetism. 

“You boys doing alright?” She beams, mostly to Shiro. As expected.

Be it petulance or an attempt to convince himself, Keith mutters another frank, “I’m fine.” But Shiro smiles up at her.

“Would you guys mind switching the Pandora?” He asks, and Keith feels the back of his neck grow hot at the same time a cold grip settles in juxtaposition just beneath his collarbone. He barely hears Shiro add the words, “Maybe jazz or something?”

“Shiro,” Keith blurts out before he can stop himself, which has the unfortunate consequence of snagging both his and the waitress’ attentions. He hates the way his next words are mumbled, awkward, but he can’t help it. It kind of feels like his throat is closing up. “It’s fine,” he gets out, looking at the edge of his napkin, at the off center stain from his empty coffee mug. “It’s… It’s almost over anyway.”

There’s an equally awkward bout of silence where Keith knows he’s being watched, possibly in confusion, definitely in pity, before the waitress speaks again, “I’ll see what I can do,” and wanders away.

Keith is breathing a bit hard, his jaw locked painfully tight, but he can’t seem to calm himself down. This coffee shop never plays classical music, so why _that_ one _specifically_?

“Hey,” Shiro’s voice tries again after a moment. It has that edge to it that Keith’s sure he’s perfected over the years purely from lulling Keith out of panic attacks. He’s certainly had the practice. 

“I told you, I’m-” Keith tries, but his voice is raw, shredded through the grit of his teeth. He’s almost thankful Shiro cuts him off.

“I know. You’re fine.” Another brief silence and then, “That was the song, wasn’t it?”

The way Keith’s whole body flinches is probably answer enough. But thankfully, Shiro doesn’t seem to expect much by way of an actual response.

“You’re usually okay with most classical piano now. A bit grumpy about it, maybe, but this time seemed different. So I figured.”

Keith swallows, which only reminds him of how tight his throat still is. So he has to swallow again before he can get the words out. “I don’t-”

The ambient music of the café cuts out for a second before returning with the soft, melodious strumming of a jazz guitar. As much as he hates it, Keith instantly feels himself relax, the pain in his chest subsiding with each riff. He swallows one more time, and the action takes the lump in his throat down with it. When he looks up at Shiro, it’s with far more strength in his words than he had a moment ago, which in and of itself is probably telling.

“I don’t want to talk about it. Really, Shiro. I’m fine.”

“Uh huh,” Shiro smirks, and Keith bristles. It’s taken nearly a year for them to get to this point, where Shiro feels like he can tease, even just a little, and Keith still feels so cornered, so lost. Which is probably why the teasing never lasts. Even if the prodding has gotten more persistent.

“So,” he says. “How’s the new major coming?”

“Fine,” Keith bites out. He’s not exactly having any fun with Theory and Analysis at the moment, but his grades are perfect.

“Any new extra-curriculars?”

Keith rolls his eyes. “Nothing piano related.”

Shiro sighs, a disappointed look flashing across his face, and despite how much he knows he won’t do anything to fix it, Keith can’t help the fresh wave of guilt. “It’s a waste, you know.”

“So you keep saying.”

“I mean, if you hated it, that would be one thing,” Shiro tries. “But to just stop playing all together when you clearly-”

“I do hate it,” Keith cuts him off with a definitive, if petulant glare, crossing his arms over his chest for added emphasis.

“You didn’t used to,” Shiro frowns, eyes sad. “I know you didn’t.”

 _Well, I do now_ , Keith doesn’t say, because why bother being redundant. _Of course I’d hate it after what happened!_ Keith also chooses to avoid. _Why are you being so adamant about this?_ He almost says, but he knows the answer to that one. He’s heard all of this before. They keep coming back to this week after week, a vicious cycle of remembering things he doesn’t want to remember and avoiding things he probably shouldn’t avoid. Things Shiro is becoming more and more ruthless about forcing him not to.

Maybe it’s about time he stopped meeting up with Shiro like this.

But no. He doesn’t want that either. Ever since Shiro graduated and moved on to his Masters, Keith hardly sees him at all anymore. These bi-weekly catch-ups are all Keith has left of their relationship; he’s been doing a bang up job decimating the rest of it. He can’t lose what little he has left. 

“How’s, um,” Keith says after far, far too long, a blatant redirection even before he gets the words out. “How’s orchestral composition going?”

Shiro stares at him for a moment, obviously not too pleased about the change in topic, but finally, eventually relenting. He smiles a bit as he shakes his head in defeat. “It’s going well. The university is great about partnerships, so I have plenty of musicians willing to read through my pieces.” Keith sees a look cross through Shiro’s expression that’s hard to decipher, and then he adds, “I may have found a conducting student willing to work with me on my final project too.”

A puzzle piece fits into place, and when Keith’s smirk raises a dusting of pink to Shiro’s cheeks, the atmosphere lifts and settles. 

“What’s her name?”

“Allura. She’s currently working on her Doctorate in choral and orchestral conducting.”

“An older woman? Good job.”

“Shut up.”

.x.X.x.

Keith dreams about it sometimes.

Sometimes it’s when he’s still at his second foster home, when he’s finally worked up the courage to sit down at that old and worn and beautiful upright piano in the corner. When he’s tapped out a melody that sounds right to his eight year old ears and his foster parents approve. They have a friend who will teach him for free, so why not? It’ll be good for him to have a hobby, and if it keeps him busy and out of trouble, even better.

Sometimes it’s when he’s in high school, living with the Koganes, and Shiro will come home from college with scraps of sheet music littered with some new melodies he wants Keith to play. It’s always a piece written to whatever level Keith is at, like it’s been composed specifically for him, and he practices each one until he can play them all by heart.

_“That’s exactly how I wanted it to sound,” Shiro will say sometimes, and sometimes Keith will shrug back. And more often than not, Shiro will ruffle his hair and add, “Nice job, you’re really improving,” and Keith will sometimes fail epically at trying not to smile._

Occasionally it’s the summer before college, competition won after competition won. Fingers flying across white and black, stunned silence followed by thunderous applause. In those, the Koganes, his parents, are front and center, right where they should be.

Sometimes it’s more recent, a first semester freshman in a practice room again, all alone. Those dreams always feel too real, like he’s sleepwalked there. He can feel the keys sinking beneath his fingers, hear the notes out of tempo and clashing.

And sometimes there are bright lights, quiet murmurs, Shiro standing off stage with an expression Keith can’t see but he can _feel_ and his fingers don’t move. He tries to play, because maybe if he does… But they don’t move, they don’t _move_. There’s a hand on his shoulder, a hand on his wrist leading him away, away, away. His fingers tremble, clench, freeze into place.

And they haven’t moved since.

.x.X.x.

Keith taps out a rhythm with his pencil as he watches Professor Coran write another figured bass line on the board. Keith barely glances at it and already he can see exactly what variations each chord will take, exactly what inversions Coran is hoping they’ll come up with.

With a quick sketch, the bass line is copied, the soprano, alto, and tenor lines filled in, and a Roman Numeral Analysis is etched below the staff. He puts his pencil down and crosses his arms over his chest.

“Damn,” a voice hisses behind him, but he ignores it, much in the same way he ignores Coran’s request for a volunteer.

It takes a few unwilling victims to eventually get it filled, but when Coran finally moves to a new bass line, Keith picks up his pen and waits.

“All right,” that same voice behind him whispers again, making the back of Keith’s neck prickle, but he does his best to continue ignoring it. Sometimes students talk to themselves during class; some sort of motivation thing, he figures. Regardless, Coran finishes the new figured bass and Keith’s eyes scan it attentively.

C major, Common Time. With this one, there’s a number 6 jotted down beneath the 2nd and 4th notes in measure one, the 1st and 2nd in measure two, and the 1st in measure three, with a predictable number 7 jotted beneath the 4th note in measure two. Another easy one. Keith sighs and copies the line, filling in the answers in much the same fashion, putting his pencil back down just as quickly.

“Fuck!” That same voice curses, louder this time, and Keith turns around to offer him a glare. All he gets in exchange, however, is the image of the crown of the boy’s head, his brown hair waving about as he vigorously attempts to fill in the last two Roman Numerals of the final measure. Keith raises an eyebrow at him, even if he’s not looking up to see it, and turns back around. Clearly someone’s dealing with personal Counterpoint issues that Keith decides he wants no part of.

After that, the rest of the class is invited to a more in depth breakdown on Roman Numeral Analysis that Keith doesn’t need and hardly pays attention to. He has a few more hours before Quantitative Reasoning and figures it’ll be the perfect opportunity to kill some time on the treadmill.

Before he can make it out of the music building after class, however, the kid from the table behind him rushes forward, beating him to the door. Keith physically startles, stopping in his tracks. The boy is tanned and lanky, an angular quality to his face that matches the sharpness in his eyes. He looks about Keith’s age, but considering Keith’s taking Theory 301 as a freshman, he figures the guy just suffers from some unfortunate baby-face. What really throws Keith off, however, is the look of determination etched there.

When the guy throws an arm out in Keith’s direction, pointing squarely in the center of his chest, Keith can’t help but take a step back, feeling his eyes go wide.

“I’ll get you next time, Kogane,” the kid declares. His voice settles at a rich tenor now that it’s not hidden behind classroom whispers, and carries a brashness that should be embarrassing.

Before Keith can even properly react, however, the kid is pushing open the double doors of the entrance and disappearing around the corner of the music building.

.x.X.x.

When Keith settles into Theory 301 the next day, the table behind him is conspicuously empty. And it stays that way the entire hour and a half.

Considering Theory 301 only meets on Mondays and Tuesdays, Keith resigns himself to the fact that he won’t be getting any answers from the brash, whispering mystery man until next week. Which doesn’t bother him in the slightest, mind you. And if he finds himself occasionally glancing about campus on his way to and from his other classes, it’s because sometimes Shiro surprises him on his slow days. That’s all.

.x.X.x.

The following Monday rolls around, and Keith gets to class a few minutes early, a strange anticipation welling in his chest that he refuses to pay attention to. Especially when there’s a notice on the board in Coran’s handwriting that demands more of his attention.

 _Roman Numeral Analysis Pop Quiz!!!_ It says in underlined, intricate cursive, the three exclamation points somehow detracting from the intended enthusiasm. Keith doesn’t have a problem with tests, exactly, he just thinks they’re a waste of time, pauses in curriculum that could otherwise be filled with learning new things. Save the exams for midterms and finals where they actually matter.

“Oh, perfect!” A voice, already vaguely familiar, exclaims upon his unnecessarily exuberant entrance into the class. Keith shifts his focus over his shoulder, watching Mr. Brash and Embarrassing take a seat behind him. Strangely, the kid is already looking at him, grinning devilishly. “All right, Kogane, first one to finish wins.”

Somehow, as much as they sound like perfectly understandable English words, their context doesn’t register. The look of confusion must show on his face, because Mr. Brash frowns, throws Keith a disappointed look, and then points towards the board.

“The quiz! First one to finish it is the winner.”

Keith glances at the board, at Coran’s writing, and then back to the kid behind him. He can feel himself frowning, not so much in confusion as incredulity. Is this guy for real? 

“It’s… Not a race?” Keith responds, mildly annoyed at how the phrase leaves him sounding a bit like a question.

Mr. Brash merely grins wider, leaning a bit closer. “That sounds like something a loser would say.”

If it’s possible to visibly bristle, Keith’s pretty sure he does it at those words, an electric pulse racing down his spine in something akin to the competitive buzz he hasn’t felt since-

“You’re on,” Keith hisses back, just as Coran saunters into class, a stack of papers in one arm.

“Alright, class!” He says with his traditional, jovial air. “You have the first thirty minutes of class to finish this quiz.” Keith is hardly paying attention, his gaze still locked fiercely with the boy’s behind him. Coran places one quiz in front of Keith and continues down the line. “You can begin when-” he starts, but the minute the quiz lands in front of the brunette, Keith whips around and starts attacking the questions on his own.

He flies through each problem with his usual ease, though perhaps with less of his usual crisp handwriting. There are only ten questions, and he manages to blaze through nine of them in under fifteen minutes. Barely a second after he adds the final Roman Numeral to the final measure of the final question, a loud slap echoes at his side.

“Done!” The guy behind him nearly shouts, the slap a result of him slamming his own test down on Keith’s table. “I win!” 

Keith spins around. “No way! I finished first!” And then, not quite sure what possesses him to do so, he grabs the guy’s quiz off his table and starts comparing their answers. “And besides. It doesn’t count if you get the questions wrong, moron.”

“What do you mean wrong?” The guy practically seethes, getting out from behind his table to stand at Keith’s side, ripping the papers out of his hands. Keith smirks up at him from his seat. “That’s clearly supposed to be a IV6 in the second measure, not a V6/4.”

“Wrong,” Keith repeats.

“And your last measure in question seven is way off!”

“Also wrong,” Keith nearly sing-songs, a strange giddiness bubbling in his chest.

The brunette slams both papers down in front of Keith again and leans in, staring him in the face.

“If anyone got the answers wrong, it’s you. And I still finished first.”

Somehow, Keith’s suddenly standing, an inch shorter than the guy, but still close enough to stare him down without having to lift his gaze. He opens his mouth to disagree once more when suddenly Coran is in front of them, holding both their papers overhead.

“It’s not going to matter who finished first when both of these quizzes come back as a zero, now is it?” He smiles curtly, his mustache furrowed above his lip. He looks furious, and Keith realizes that he may or may not have been trying to get their attention for a while now.

His words suddenly sink in.

“Wait, what?” Keith says at the same time that the brunette sputters, “Zero? But why?”

“Disturbing the rest of the class, shouting out answers, do you really need to ask?” Coran huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. There’s a moment of silence, and then the brunette suddenly perks up.

“Does that mean I got the answers right?”

Keith glares in his direction and then at Coran, determined. “No, I did. Right, Professor?”

Surprisingly, though it shouldn’t be, Coran just sighs, pointing towards the door. “Out of my class. You two are done for the day.”

A rush of embarrassment settles in a burning flush across Keith’s face. “Wait, but I-”

“Out!” Coran repeats a bit louder, and Keith feels himself flinch, following the brunette out into the hall. Just before the door closes, he can hear the quiet murmurs and chuckles of his classmates, his blush growing deeper.

“Well this is just great,” Mr. Brash and Obnoxious suddenly groans, leaning against the wall. For just a second, Keith had almost forgotten he hadn’t been banished alone. When he glances over, the guy has his arms crossed over his chest and he’s glaring at Keith in a way that can only be defined as petulant. “If you’d just taken your loss like a champ, none of this would have-”

“Okay,” Keith interrupts, walking into the guy’s personal space. “First off, I didn’t lose. And second, you just caused me my first failed grade. Ever. So if anyone should be pissed off, it should be me. And I am. So screw you.”

“You think it’s _my_ fault?” The guy gasps dramatically as Keith backs away. “If anything, it’s _your_ fault for always challenging me!”

“Challenging you to what? I don’t even know who you are!” Keith is very close to throwing his hands in the air in exasperation, but the look on the guy’s face suddenly shifts. The expression is barely there, and gone before Keith can even decide what it means, but it silences him just long enough for the guy to fall back into dramatics.

“Uh, the name’s Lance? Lance McClain?” He says, as if that should ring some sort of bell for Keith. Which it definitely doesn’t. Lance seems to notice this fact as well, his demeanor growing frustrated. “The only other freshman in Theory 301? Second in the class? For now, that is.”

Keith vaguely remembers seeing that name on the roster when Coran was posting their grades, but it’s not like he cared. And before he can stop himself, he says as much. “Huh. Never noticed you. But it’s usually second place that notices first, not the other way around. So that explains that, right?”

Lance actually looks genuinely taken aback by this, but before he can reply in any way, the classroom door opens and Coran pops his head out. “I’ll give you boys one more chance at doing this quiz properly tomorrow after class,” he says, waiting for their nods of agreement. And then, before popping back inside, he adds, “Also! Turns out you both got one wrong. So it’s a tie.” Then the door slams in their faces once more.

Keith spares Lance a matching frown. Neither of them feel like it’s much of a win.

.x.X.x.

The next afternoon, once the rest of the class has left, Keith can practically feel the tension in the room quadruple. Lance has his arms stretched out across the table, wrists hanging off the edge, and the look on his face is one of pure, unmasked sulking. Seriously, Keith’s never seen a person frown so theatrically and mean it.

Maybe that’s what prompts him to roll his eyes and say, “Stop being so dramatic. It’ll only take, like, twenty minutes.”

Lance snorts and rolls his eyes right back, an impressive feat considering he does so without breaking the frown. “I’m not upset about the retake, asshole,” he mumbles, chin digging into the desk. “I have much more disappointing news to brood over, thank you very much.”

After a moment, Keith offers an indifferent, “O…kay?” and turns back around. 

Another moment or two, and without prompting, he hears Lance speak again to his back. “My friends had to bail on our trio for my jury performance this month. Scheduling conflicts.”

“Sucks,” Keith says without even bothering to turn around. Lance goes on, seemingly unperturbed.

“Which means I have to learn a whole new piece and find an accompanist on top of that.”

“Guess so,” Keith sighs, taking the quiz from Coran and getting to work. Out of his periphery, he can see Coran handing Lance his own quiz, but for some reason, the boy refuses to stop talking.

“It’s hard enough finding an accompanist in general, let alone this late in the game,” he says, a frustrated grumble mostly to himself. “And the piece I’ll probably do instead doesn’t exactly have an easy piano part.”

Keith hates himself, but a small part of him latches onto the word piano, his finger twitching against the pencil. He can’t help but wonder what song it is, whether he’s played it before in the past, what instrument he’d be accompanying if he-

But no. None of that stuff matters. Even if he wanted to help the guy out, it’s been almost a year. He’s out of practice and doesn’t play anymore anyway and-

Probably best if he doesn’t say anything at all.

Neither of them do for the rest of the quiz, thank god, but as they pack their stuff up to leave, the words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them.

“What do you play?”

“Hm?” Lance looks up from throwing his books in his bag as if Keith’s question doesn’t quite register. When it does though, his eyes light up and his grin tugs up at the corners in something that looks vaguely narcissistic. “Oh. Lance McClain, classical violin major, at your service.” He holds out his hand, but Keith just rolls his eyes again (a habit this guy is apparently forcing him to pick up) and swings his bag over his shoulder instead. Lance doesn’t seem insulted in the least, however, just chuckling to himself as he lowers his hand and grabs his bag, following Keith out into the hall.

Once they’re outside, Keith turns in the direction of the dorms. He expects Lance to walk the other way, but a few steps later and Lance appears at his side.

“Why?” he says, glancing at Keith out of the corner of his eye. “You play piano or something?”

Keith’s heart jumps, his chest growing tight. He swallows back the wave of bitterness that coats the back of his tongue and tries to keep his breathing level. He should just tell Lance no. Technically it’s true. But apparently his hesitation is answer enough.

“You do? No way!” Lance jumps up, lengthening his stride enough to walk directly in front of Keith, forcing him to come to a stop. “You should totally play for me!”

“I don’t play,” Keith spits back, venomous. And then something in him shatters a bit, and he can’t quite lie. “Not anymore.”

“Aw, come on,” Lance pouts again, and Keith can’t help but admire how quickly and effortlessly Lance seems to shift from emotion to emotion. It feels like Keith’s barely felt more than a bitter numbness since- “Why not? You’d really be doing me a solid, buddy,” Lance cuts off that train of thought before it can fester. Keith silently thanks him. 

“We’re buddies now?” He snorts, walking around Lance and continuing towards the dorms again.

“Totally!” Lance nearly shouts, and Keith can almost hear the way his face has morphed back into a grin. An arm is suddenly around Keith’s shoulders, weighing him down, but thankfully also keeping him from falling over when he inevitably stumbles underneath it. “Keith and Lance, best bros for life. So what do you say? I can get you the sheet music by tomorrow.”

“I said no,” Keith ducks away from Lance’s arm and picks up the pace. Surprisingly, Lance doesn’t follow this time. He does, however, yell rather loudly and embarrassingly at Keith’s back.

“Come on, man! I’m really in a bind here! Is this because I finished the quiz first?”

Almost as if by a force outside of his control, Keith looks over his shoulder and shouts back, “You didn’t!” And before Lance can yell anything else at him, Keith turns down the sidewalk and Lance vanishes from sight.

.x.X.x.

“Maybe you should do it.”

Keith groans, leaning heavily into his seat, and Shiro doesn’t bother to hide his chuckle. “I don’t want to,” Keith says, and he knows it sounds whiney, but it’s true. He _doesn’t_ want to. Why would he?

“It sounds like it would really help the guy out.” Shiro raises his mug of chai tea to his mouth, lips hidden behind the rim as he adds, “Remember when your partner for that competition in high school dropped out right before the performance? If there’d been somebody who could have backed you up on that one, wouldn’t you have jumped on them?”

“That was for a competition,” Keith huffs, grabbing his own mug of coffee off the table and taking a swig. For as often as Keith and Shiro come here, he apparently still manages to occasionally put too much sugar. 

“Didn’t you say this was for the kid’s jury?” Shiro raises an eyebrow as if that makes Keith’s argument null and void. “Some might consider a graded performance to be more important than a competition.”

“Yeah, well,” Keith shrugs and takes another sip, grimacing. Maybe his pallet just isn’t in a coffee mood today. “I’m still not doing it. I mean, I don’t even know if the guy’s any good.”

“Says the person who hasn’t played for nearly a year and is probably more than a little rusty,” Shiro smirks.

“Another valid reason why I _shouldn’t_ play,” Keith glares at Shiro for a moment before looking away. “I don’t even know if I’d be able to do it.”

A silence stretches after that, tense and bordering on uncomfortable. But, as always, Shiro does his best to break it before it draws on too long.

“Does the music department still do that monthly Music At Midnight thing?” He asks, and Keith looks up, surprised at the change of topic.

“Uh, yeah. Every last Friday.”

“So there should be one tonight then?” The words are nonchalant, and Keith feels something akin to a sinking suspicion.

“Yeah, probably,” Keith narrows his eyes at him, waits for the drop.

“You described this Lance McClain as loud, overly dramatic, and way too enthusiastic for his own good, right? I’ll bet you anything he’s performing. When I went here, attention seekers like him always did.”

“So?” Keith sighs, already knowing where this is going. Why was Shiro being so persistent about this anyway?

“So,” Shiro reiterates, holding up a finger in explanation. “The only viable argument you have is that you think the kid might suck. Go see him tonight. If he’s someone you don’t want to perform with, than don’t. But at least you gave him a shot.”

Against his better judgment, Keith finds himself considering it. It probably wouldn’t hurt to check it out; he hasn’t been to any of them yet. And as much as he loathes to admit it, he’s genuinely curious to see where Lance’s level is at.

However.

“You forgot about my other viable argument,” Keith says matter-of-factly, grabbing both his and Shiro’s mugs to take to the dish rack. When Shiro raises an eyebrow at him in confusion, Keith merely shrugs. “I don’t play anymore.”

.x.X.x.

Yet despite Viable Argument Number Two, Keith still finds himself walking into the main performance hall at 11:55 that evening. The need for proper acoustics outweighs his desire to remain unseen, and Keith sits himself down a bit towards the back in the center.

The handout for this month’s Music At Midnight announces a total of four performers, a pianist Keith remembers from his first semester, a jazz guitarist, a singer being accompanied by one of the other students, and then Lance as the finale. The idea of having to sit through three mediocre performances just to see how mediocre Lance is makes Keith feel a bit antsy, and unsurprisingly already bored. But he just settles in regardless, takes out his phone, and waits for the show to start.

A few minutes later, the director of the jazz ensemble, Professor Rolo, steps out on stage. He says one thing or another about the different styles of music and how every person should be given the opportunity to put their own spin on things. No classical music here tonight then, it would seem. Whether that’s a relief or a disappointment, Keith’s not entirely sure.

Thankfully, after that brief speech, the pianist from his first semester steps on stage and everything quiets down. The Handout describes her piece as an “original arrangement” from a video game that Keith’s never played, though he recognizes it thanks to sheer societal popularity. It’s a simple melody that she has oversaturated with flourishes. Her ornamentation is all over the place, her tempo picking up and slowing down in odd places. 

Yet despite all that, Keith can’t help the way his fingers start mimicking the notes against the fabric of his jeans, tapping out ornamentations he would have done instead, or keeping tempo when her progression falls off track. Eventually, when the repetitive melody gets stuck in his head, he finds himself playing along with her in light taps against his knee. Which he abruptly brings to a stop once he realizes he’s doing so.

His breath of relief when she finishes is thankfully drowned out by the sound of the small audience’s applause.

The jazz guitarist, a student of Professor Rolo’s apparently, comes out to play shortly after, and Keith does his best to tune him out instead of imagining what a simple piano accompaniment would sound like. He has more luck blocking out the third performance, thankfully. The song is some top forty hit Keith has no opinion on and the singer’s vocals match in perfect mediocrity with the pianist accompanying her.

Then finally, finally, Lance walks out on stage, all smiles and waves to whom Keith assumes are his friends; though from what he’s gathered of Lance, he could just be working the crowd. The handout says he’ll be playing a cover of something called Chandelier by an artist named Sia. Keith feels himself sit up a bit straighter, his eyes zeroing in on Lance’s violin. It’s electric, connected to a sort of pedal that Lance places at the floor by his feet. He hooks himself into it and then into an amp right behind him that Keith hadn’t noticed before. Then, Lance takes a breath, plays a few notes to make sure everything it set up and tuned, and clicks the pedal with his toe. He starts to play.

It’s simple at first, just individually plucked notes for a couple of measures, but as he moves on to a new set of notes and a strummed melody, they begin to layer on top of each other, each cadence from the measures before looped on repeat beneath him. He even takes a second to put his bow in his mouth and tap out a sort of percussion on the frets. Everything blends in perfect harmony like an orchestra building itself against a swelling foundation, and Keith can’t help but be mesmerized.

And then Lance starts playing what must be the actual melody over top of it all and Keith feels himself physically leaning towards the edge of his seat. Lance drags his bow along the strings in elegant sweeping motions, his fingers flying along the fret board with perfectly executed ornamentation. It’s unlike anything he’s ever seen, unlike anything he’s ever heard.

How has he never _noticed_ this guy before?

He’s never seen anyone play the violin like this. He feels like he could listen to Lance play for hours, _wants_ to listen over and over again even if it’s just to this piece on repeat, layering and looping for eternity. But it’s more than that. He feels like he could watch Lance play for eternity too. The way he sways and dips with the more passionate moments, the way his whole body seems to become an extension of the violin itself. Even the way he occasionally opens his eyes and smiles at the audience, even going so far as to wink at particular members of the crowd. Lance is enthralling, impossible to look away from. It’s like watching fireworks for the first time, terrifying and beautiful and overwhelming and a part of you wants it to go on forever.

Which is exactly when the background harmonies cut out and Lance pulls back on a brilliantly executed high note, just enough vibrato on the end to let it sing.

As expected, the crowd is in an uproar the moment he puts down his bow, and Lance beams beneath the praise. He bows not once, not twice, but three times, waving his bow over his head in an unnecessary flourish. Most of the crowd even gives him a standing ovation, which seems to only add to his buoyant attitude. 

Keith gets to his feet too, but only as a means of escape. Now that he’s heard him, he doesn’t need to stick around and accidentally get noticed. That would only-

“Keith?” Lance’s voice carries over the murmurs of the crowd dying down, most people packing up to leave around him. Keith feels his heart jump, a panicked sort of feeling that settles hotly at the back of his neck. Slowly, so as not to show just how uncomfortable he is, Keith turns around, watching as Lance says something to two people at the front of the stage (a shorter girl with fly away hair and glasses as well as a tall, heavier set guy with dark skin and a kind face) before bounding over.

“What are you doing here?” Lance says without preamble the moment he’s within earshot. Keith opens his mouth to say something, probably a lie, when Lance continues on as if he hasn’t asked a question at all. His eyes have gone wide, his mouth splitting into an excited grin that Keith feels like a tug on his own heart. “Did you decide to be my accompanist?”

“No,” Keith bites out quickly, watching the excitement drain from Lance’s face in an instant.

“What do you mean? I was good, right?” Lance smirks, nudging Keith with his elbow. “Admit it, I was awesome. Why _wouldn’t_ you want to perform with me?”

“I don’t…” Keith pulls away from Lance’s persistently jabbing elbow and takes a step towards the door. He’s starting to wonder more and more why he even bothered to come. “I don’t do that anymore, I told you.”

Lance follows him all the way outside, and it takes Keith a moment to realize that his friends have followed with him, the big guy holding Lance’s violin case in hand. “It’s okay if you’re a little rusty,” Lance tries to compromise, but that just makes Keith wince.

“That’s not the point,” he snaps back, mind searching for an appropriate excuse, even if it’s not exactly the real one. “I don’t even know what level you’re at classically. That was impressive in there, I’ll give you that, but it’s hardly classical violin.”

Lance blinks at him, a weird emotion crossing his face, before he holds his hand out in his big friend’s direction.

“Lance,” the guy says, uncertain, but that doesn’t stop him from opening up the case. “Are you sure?”

“Hunk,” Lance says by way of argument, and his friend- Hunk hands him the violin and bow with a sigh. Lance plays a few quick notes and then stares Keith dead in the eye. 

This time, when he plays, it’s like fire crackling to life. His bow flies across the strings, tilting along the neck of the violin in a speed that shouldn’t be possible for how accurate and in tune each note rings. If Keith had thought his song inside had been mesmerizing, this is literally incapacitating. He couldn’t have looked away if he tried. 

Despite being distinctly classical in composition, it’s a song Keith has never heard before, which only adds to the brilliance of it, the sheer impressiveness of it. He can barely follow the fevered pace of Lance’s fingers, keeps getting distracted by the way Lance’s whole body bends into the instrument at times, how he can’t help but stomp his foot on one of the down beats. 

Before he gets a chance to finish, however, a voice shouts from the door to the performance hall. “McClain! It’s one am! Put that away and get to your dorm!” Lance’s bow slips from the strings with a violent shriek and everyone jerks towards Professor Rolo with a start. Lance nods, reaching towards Hunk for his case. He’s noticeably panting, Hunk looking at him in surprise. And also something a bit like concern.

As seems to be the case with Lance, Keith can’t seem to help himself. “What… was that?” he hears himself ask, eyeing Lance as he carefully tucks his violin back into its case. Lance grins over his shoulder. 

“You said you weren’t sure if I could play at your level classically? Well how was that?”

“I never said-” Keith tries, but Lance cuts him off with a shrug, still grinning, and still panting just a bit.

“You implied.”

The burn that spreads across his face is definitely noticeable, so Keith looks away, swallowing thickly. “I’ve never heard that one before.”

“I wrote it,” Lance says nonchalantly, and when Keith looks over at him in shock, Lance is rooting around in his bag, not paying attention.

“You-” Keith balks, but Lance cuts him off by shoving a stack of papers into his chest. Keith has to take a step back to stop himself from falling over. When he looks from Lance’s smiling face to the papers in his arms, it’s sheet music. Of course. “I never said I was going to accompany you.”

Lance just shrugs, still smiling. Still smiling. “Think about it, look it over.”

“Lance,” the girl to Hunk’s left crosses her arms over her chest. “Quit flirting and get your ass in gear. You have that music history make up lecture at eight am, remember?”

“Yes mom,” Lance rolls his eyes in feigned annoyance before something seems to occur to him. “Oh, Keith! These are my friends Hunk and Pidge.” He points to each of them in turn. “Guys, this is Keith.”

Only mildly awkward greetings are exchanged before Pidge gives Lance another warning and starts heading off. “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” Lance huffs in return, making to follow. But not before leaning into Keith’s personal space and whispering, “I’m glad you were impressed.”

If Keith thought his face was hot before, it feels perpetually scorched now. Keith barely manages a surprised and definitely eloquent grunt, before Lance turns on his heel and chases after his friends. It takes Lance disappearing from sight before Keith realizes he’s still holding onto the sheet music.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been nice getting to use my music major for once... As of now, this should end in eight chapters. If that changes, you'll be the first to know. Thanks for reading! Here's some inspirational music vids I may or may not have been envisioning verbatim:
> 
> Lance's Sia - Chandelier Cover (dude even kinda reminds me of Lance? Like, if Lance was a violinist, this guy would be it???): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NpYCT0lzcwA
> 
> Lance's Original/Classical Piece: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F7Z-GPwyjOk


	2. Second Movement: Acciaccatura

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **_Acciaccatura:_** literally - to crush. A type of “ornament” (usually in 17th and 18th century keyboard music) in which a “dissonant” note is played at the same time as a “consonant” note.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who left kudos and comments! They always brighten up my day. This is a relatively shorter chapter, so I'll be sure to post the third one sooner rather than later.

The next day, for the first time since a month into his freshman year, Keith finds himself sitting in a practice room in front of one of the many upright pianos.

He doesn’t play, simply lays the sheet music out in front of him and reads. It’s a piece he’s familiar with, though he’s never played it personally. Both violin and piano parts seem to be relatively difficult, formed by complicated interweaving that Beethoven is known for, but they also seem to balance each other out well. Without really realizing it, he finds himself lightly touching the keys to work out a fingering.

The moment he notices, he clicks his tongue, throws the sheet music back in his bag, and walks out of the practice room without another sound.

.x.X.x.

“You change your mind yet?” Lance asks from his usual seat the next Monday in Theory 301. 

“No,” Keith replies, not even bothering to turn around.

Lance makes some sort of unconvinced noise, but doesn’t say anything else.

.x.X.x.

“Professor Coran!” Lance calls out once class the following day is dying out. Coran shifts his attention to Keith’s side of the room and the shuffle of Lance getting out of his seat echoes behind him. “Would you mind playing some of this for me?” He asks, handing Coran some sheet music. “So I can see how it sounds without the violin part.”

“Hm, I don’t see why not,” Coran smiles, cracking his knuckles once before sitting down at the room’s lone piano. “It’ll take me back to my college days.”

“Technically, you’re still in college,” Lance jokes, but Coran merely tuts and begins to play.

Even having only read it over once, Keith recognizes it instantly. It sounds exactly like it did in his head, albeit at a more moderate tempo than what he would have chosen. He even feels himself moving his fingers in time to the measures he remembers, and when he looks over at the piano, Lance’s knowing grin tells him that it hasn’t gone unnoticed.

Without a word, Keith grabs his things and walks out of the room before Coran even makes it to the end of the third page.

.x.X.x.

When Lance bothers him about it again the following week, Keith holds strong to his refusal. Even though he’s suddenly, acutely aware of the fact that Lance’s jury is swiftly approaching with no accompanist in sight.

The worry is mostly involuntary, balanced out by the annoyance that Lance might be doing this just to get under his skin, just to see if he can get Keith to crack. Like it’s no more than another one of his petty challenges. But regardless, that doesn’t change the fact that Lance is getting closer and closer to his jury date with nothing to show for it. And as someone who used to value their musical and educational reputation over pretty much everything else, that inherently makes Keith nervous.

A nervousness that only grows when Lance isn’t in class the next day. Or either of the two the following week.

.x.X.x.

It’s only another three times in total, but the practice rooms see more of him the rest of that week than they had for nearly all of his freshman year. He never plays, same as before, but every time he goes, he reads those pages of sheet music forward to back.

Maybe it would be alright if he-

No. He already decided.

But if Lance still hasn’t found anyone by the end of the week, then he-

It doesn’t matter. He can’t play even if he wanted to. 

But.

But is that still true? Maybe Shiro’s right. Maybe enough time passed that he-

Before he can talk himself out of it, Keith places his fingers to the keys and takes a breath. Then another. His heart is pounding for some reason, a light tremble to his hands. But still, he counts off a tempo in his head and starts.

The violin plays alone for the first four measures, so Keith starts on the fifth, playing the block chords and written ornamentation the way Beethoven requested: _Adagio sostenuto_. Every note echoes as it should, and despite the slight shaking of his hands, he manages to make it through the first eighteen measures, almost the entire first page, without a hitch. Something very much like hope bubbles to life behind his rib cage.

For a first run completely sight reading, he takes the _Presto_ at measure nineteen with a grain of salt, imagining what the violin would sound like on top. What Lance would sound like. Keith feels himself pick up the pace at the thought, feels himself grinning just a bit.

Which, of course, is the moment his heart clenches and his joints lock up. He makes it part of the way through the running scale on the next page before he stumbles over himself, the fingering he’d been considering completely falling apart. He tries to make up for it by jumping ahead a bit, but it doesn’t help. 

The lights are suddenly too bright, the sound of the keys clashing against each other almost deafening. He thinks, for a second, that he can feel Shiro behind him. Why is he doing this? Why is he still doing this? When did he walk out on stage? He doesn’t remember sitting down. He doesn’t remember starting to play. He doesn’t-

It takes him a very long, very painful moment to realize he’s stopped playing, that he’s been sitting in silence for probably a while now. Just like back then. Just like every time after.

This time, when he walks out of the practice room, he leaves the sheet music behind.

.x.X.x.

When Lance asks him during Theory 301 the following week, Keith shouldn’t be surprised, but he is.

“Are you kidding me?” Keith blurts, turning completely around to stare at Lance in shock. “Hasn’t your jury passed already?”

“It’s tonight actually,” Lance smiles, and there’s really no reason for him to look so _at ease_ about it.

Keith balks. “Tonight. Your jury is tonight. And you still don’t have an accompanist.”

“Correct on all accounts.”

“Your jury is literally in a couple of hours. And you still haven’t found a replacement.”

“Not a soul.”

“Were you even _looking_ for anyone else?” Keith finally caves, because it’s a question he’s been meaning to ask, but it just always felt too… vain?

Still, Lance’s answer is a firm, confident, “Nope.” God, he’s even _smiling_.

Keith’s pretty sure his eyebrows and his hairline have melded into one. “ _Why?!_ ”

Lance leans back in his chair, grin still in place and still incredibly calm, but softer somehow, as if he’s about to let Keith in on a secret. “Because I wanted it to be you.”

A moment passes. Then another. Keith feels the word leave his lips on half-second delay. “What?”

Lance looks him in the eye, in all seriousness, and says it again. “I wanted it to be you.”

“But why?” Keith practically wheezes. It just doesn’t make sense. “I haven’t played for nearly a year. You’ve never even _heard_ me play.”

“I thought it would be fun,” is all Lance offers by way of explanation. “And I had a feeling you’d be good.”

“A feeling,” Keith parrots, his face growing hot. “You risked your jury grade on a feeling.”

And to that, Lance actually winks at him. Keith feels suddenly dizzy. “I’m personally still waiting for you to come through.”

“This is…” Keith breathes, not quite sure how to put it into words. “You are… Completely ridiculous.”

“And charming and handsome and a kick ass violinist,” Lance counts off each endearment on a finger. “But you still haven’t answered my question.”

“What question…?” Keith hears himself ask, because in all honestly, he’s a little overwhelmed all of a sudden. Everything about this just seems too surreal to follow. Lance however, seems completely unaffected.

“Did you change your mind?” 

Lance never breaks eye contact, and because of this, Keith finds himself frozen beneath that gaze. He seems so blazè about the whole thing, like it doesn’t matter if Keith says yes or no. But that’s not quite true either, is it? It’s obvious he wants Keith to play for him, he just doesn’t understand why. Why go to such great lengths when there’s certainly a professor he could have gone to or an accompanist he could have paid for, maybe even another student he could have coerced. Why Keith? Why did it have to be him?

For what feels like the millionth time, Keith opens his mouth to say no, but then his eyes drift down to Lance’s smug grin. A grin that seems to be faltering.

All the little details of Lance’s façade seem put on display just then. The way Lance’s hand shakes a bit against the table. The way his lip keeps twitching as if it’s getting harder and harder to hold the grin in place. The way something in his eyes seems almost nervous. Almost pleading.

Before he’s even made the conscious decision to do so, Keith hears himself whisper a response.

“Alright.”

Lance’s eyes widen in genuine surprise and, of all things, Keith feels the beginnings of a laugh get caught in his throat.

So, as if he wasn’t already acting crazy enough, he says it again. “Alright. I’ll do it.”

.x.X.x.

Once the high of making the decision has worn off, and once Lance and he are sitting in the practice room mere minutes away from the performance, the reality of what he’s doing seems to finally sink in.

“This was a terrible idea,” Keith mutters mostly to himself, trying to quell the steady rise in his already frantic pulse with deep breath after deep breath. Lance places a hand on his shoulder in comfort and he feels it like an electric shock through his entire system. If Lance felt him physically jolt beneath the touch, he thankfully doesn’t comment.

“We’re gonna be fine,” he says, and he seems so certain, it almost makes Keith wonder if he knows something Keith doesn’t. Is he psychic? Can he see a future where they don’t crash and burn? Maybe a future where Keith doesn’t come out of a nearly year long hiatus with an abysmal performance and an added layer to his current bout of PTSD?

“I don’t really see how we will be.” Keith croaks, reaching towards the sheet music Lance brought just in case. He’s already got it memorized, benefit of a photographic memory, but that doesn’t mean he’ll be able to play it. Just thinking about his last night in a practice room is making him vaguely nauseous. If he freaks out like that on stage-

“Hey.”

Lance is suddenly right in his line of sight, one hand on Keith’s knee, the other covering the shaking hand currently holding the sheet music in a relentless grip. Lance’s expression is calm, soothing even, and the longer Lance holds his gaze, the more relaxed his grip becomes. In fact, the longer Keith stares at Lance, follows each of the violinists breaths, in and out in and out, the more relaxed he starts to feel in general.

Oh. He may have been having a bit of a panic attack, hadn’t he?

“That’s better,” Lance smiles once Keith manages to get himself back under control. “Stop worrying so much, alright? If we mess up, we mess up. I’m not expecting anything from you.”

“If you knew-” Keith starts with a shaky, self-deprecating chuckle, but when he realizes what he’s about to say, he shuts his mouth with an audible click. Lance is still looking at him, now with a hint of confused concern, so Keith swallows and tries again. “If you knew how good I was last year,” he says instead, trying to fake a smirk that holds absolutely zero confidence. “You’d probably be expecting a lot.”

A second passes and then Lance is laughing, a vibrant sound that sinks into Keith’s skin like soothing warmth and sunshine. “Well then,” he says once the laughter dies down. “Good thing I’ve never heard you play. Bar’s set real low, buddy. Don’t worry.”

Somehow, in lieu of any common sense, Keith finds himself chuckling right along with him. That is, until the practice room door opens and they’re ushered out into the hall.

His heart is pounding, a steady thrum in his ears, and he feels a little dizzy. Maybe if he passes out before they reach the stage, this whole thing could be avoided. As if sensing Keith’s fight or flight kicking in, however, Lance reaches behind him and grabs Keith’s hand, leading him straight to the piano. On autopilot, Keith sits himself down in front of the keys, adjusting the bench to his liking while Lance tunes his violin. 

_This was a mistake_ , a voice at the back of Keith’s head repeats over and over again. _What are you doing? Mistake, mistake, mistake! Get out of here before it's too late!_

“Like I said,” Lance’s voice cuts through the rising panic once again, and when Keith looks up at him, he’s glancing over his shoulder and grinning excitedly. “No expectations. Just have fun.”

Fun.

Piano isn’t about fun. Piano is about perfection. About winning competitions. About being the best and outperforming your peers and-

And then Lance starts to play.

Those first four solo measures seem to simultaneously drag on forever in grandeur and move far too quickly for Keith to ever be ready. In fact, when they draw to a close, Keith pauses long enough that he has to take one last deep breath before playing his opening chord.

It goes well for a while, all the way through the first page, and even half of the second. When the running scale comes along, Keith closes his eyes and grits his teeth, forcing his fingers to do what they’re supposed to. He manages to get through it, but he can feel his joints locking up again, his hands shaking. He can feel the dam about to break and his resolve about to shatter.

Which it does. Of course it does.

It’s like his fingers can’t keep up with the speed, even though the tempo isn’t anywhere near what he wants to be playing. And in the moments where Lance and he take turns, it sounds sloppy and disjointed. When the frantic melody dies down into a soothing juxtaposition, even his blocked chords beneath, even the light trills he should have no problem playing, are shaky and ineloquent. 

If his heart was racing before, it’s practically digging its way out of his chest by now, not just out of embarrassment, but out of that same blinding panic that he can’t seem to shake. He can already feel his fingers refusing to cooperate any further, everything going numb. He can’t even hear the piano anymore. He knows offhandedly that he’s playing primarily by himself beneath a section where Lance plucks out a quick melody on the strings, but it sounds like the musical equivalent of gibberish.

The lights overhead suddenly feel too bright, like they’ve been turned to the highest setting, burning hot and blinding above him. A terrifying thought, that Shiro might suddenly be standing at the stage door, keeps Keith looking down, his eyes locked on his hands. His ears are ringing, his mind swimming, he can’t tell where he is, _when_ he is. If it weren’t for the distant sound of the violin cutting into his cloud of panic, he’d probably have bolted off stage by now.

Something akin to guilt grips hard at the center of his chest, Keith’s stomach dropping. He’s ruining this for Lance. Why did they think this was a good idea? Of course he was going to ruin this. There’s no way they’ll be able to give him a proper score for his jury if Keith keeps on like this. He should just stop. He should just-

Oh. He must have stopped a while ago. His hands aren’t moving, his whole body frozen besides the soft panting of his breaths. It’s for the best. It was stupid of him to agree to this. It’ll be better if Lance goes on without him; it might be the only way to save his grade.

Except. Except, Lance has stopped playing too apparently?

The sudden recognition of silence seems enough to partially wrench Keith back to the present, his back straightening as he turns towards Lance with wide eyes. The words, _Why did you stop?_ Or, _Dumbass, if you keep playing you can still salvage this ship wreck!_ almost come pouring out, but his tongue is heavy, his throat tight. And just when the need to run, the need to escape the silence and the embarrassment, becomes nearly overwhelming, Lance glances over his shoulder. Violin still posed at the ready, he opens his mouth.

“You with me, buddy?”

Such simple words, casual and light in tone, but somehow they settle over Keith’s shoulders like an anchor, keeping him from floating off into space. Keith knows he should respond, or at the very least ask Lance how on earth he could be so _calm_ right now, but then Lance smiles down at him, a comforting look, and Keith finds himself nodding.

Probably still a horrible idea, but sure. If Lance wants to keep going, Keith will keep going.

“Good,” Lance nods back, turning to face the jury council again. “Let’s take it from the top!”

The whole ordeal seems so surreal. Keith watches as Lance starts playing those first few measures by himself again, as relaxed and collected as before, and this time, when Keith joins in, he keeps watching.

Years of practice and muscle memory has given Keith an almost unparalleled ability to play without looking at the keys. It helped substantially with sight-reading in middle school and even more so with competitions in high school. But never has he been more thankful for this skill than right now. 

Watching Lance is the perfect distraction, memories of that Music At Midnight performance no more than a few weeks ago resurfacing with a vengeance. Lance moves with the music like he’s dancing to it, the violin an extension of his arms, his hands. He plays each note like breathing, and Keith finds himself breathing with him.

They make it through three pages without fault. Then four.

Keith keeps his eyes locked on Lance’s form, on how he plays as if it’s to no one but himself, every note pulled from the instrument like it’s been seduced, and suddenly they’ve nearly completed the piece, nearly reached the final crescendo. 

Lance glances over his shoulder again.

His eyes widen when he realizes Keith is already looking, but instead of embarrassment, or worse, confusion and disgust, he beams down at him, eyes shining with what can only be categorized as surprised excitement. Maybe even a little appreciation.

Keith’s heart is pounding for an entirely different reason all of a sudden, the music that flows through his fingertips reminiscent of something he feels like he’s been missing for a long time. It feels like his first competition, his first memorized Beethoven Sonata, his first attempt at tackling one of Shiro’s original compositions. It feels like playing for the sake of playing instead of for the grade or the medal or the pride. It feels like-

As Lance’s fingers fly over the strings and Keith’s race in tandem over the keys, it feels like a perfect synchronicity. Never before has Keith played for or with anyone and had such an overwhelming desire for the piece to simply… Not end. He doesn’t think of bright lights or distant murmurs or Shiro’s solemn face. He doesn’t think of messing up or ruining Lance’s grade or locked joints and numb fingers. All that matters is the way the violin resonates over the piano.

All that matters is Lance’s vicious melody over Keith’s fluid harmony.

As beautifully as it finishes, it’s over too soon, Lance breathing just as hard as he is, a smile stretched across his face.

Neither of them had looked away from each other for nearly thirteen pages.

.x.X.x.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I fucked up,” Keith says the moment they’re off stage. Lance is still breathing a little heavily, still sporting a wild look in his eye.

“Are you kidding?” He laughs, the sound near hysteric. “That was insane! Playing with you, it’s just… It’s everything I-” He stops to run a shaking hand over his face. His other hand, Keith notices, is gripping his violin and bow so hard it looks like he might break them. When he finally looks back at Keith, his eyes are wet, his smile wobbly but euphoric. “Dude, I’m pretty sure that’s the most fun I’ve ever had with an accompanist ever.”

Which makes no sense. No sense at all. And yet, Keith can’t exactly say he disagrees. Thinking of those last few pages still gives him goose-bumps, that final measure still echoes in his veins. If only they’d done it like that the first time. 

“I just…” Keith frowns, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. He can’t help but look back out on stage, every mistake he made slowly cancelling out the moments of excitement. “I ruined your jury,” he says at last, the very top of the list for sure. “I didn’t even make it two pages before we had to stop and start over. And then when we played again, I was all over the place. I had to keep watching you just to take my mind off of-”

“Keith, buddy,” Lance laughs, placing his violin and bow down on the couch next to the stage entrance. Once his hands are free, he uses them to grab each of Keith’s, gripping them tight. Keith looks from them to Lance’s face with what’s probably a confused and mildly panicked stare. Lance, however, simply looks happy. A bit exasperated perhaps, but definitely happy. “That last half of the song was unbelievable. Everything about it. I still have goose-bumps, man!”

Keith blinks, thrown off balance. “But your grade. There’s no way I didn’t fuck up your-”

“Who cares about a stupid jury grade?” Lance groans, rolling his eyes in a way that should be over dramatic, but somehow he makes it look genuine. 

“But. But it’s…” Keith tries to repeat. Because clearly Lance is missing the point. Having Keith as his accompanist probably resulted in a failing grade. And if not, the stopping and starting over definitely did. So why isn’t he upset? “Lance,” Keith frowns. “This was your jury. It was important and I-”

“And you backed me up,” Lance finishes for him, giving Keith’s hands an extra squeeze, even though he’d definitely forgotten Lance was holding them. “You played with me. That’s all I wanted. Fuck the grade. I didn’t care about that anyway.”

“You didn’t… You don’t make any sense,” Keith breathes, brow furrowed and eyes narrowed in disbelief, because really. Who the hell _is_ this guy?

“Maybe not your kind of sense,” Lance chuckles. “But I went into this knowing what I was hoping for. And you came through.” Keith can’t help but look up at that, Lance’s eyes locking with his in fierce, unwavering determination. “I wanted to know what it would be like to play with you,” he says. “And now I know.”

A silence passes between them at that, not quite awkward, but definitely weighted, like neither of them know what to say. It’s a vibrant and intoxicating tension, like standing on a tight rope and wanting to fall. Though he has no idea when it happened, they’re suddenly so close Keith swears he can see the shades of blue in Lance’s eyes, feel Lance’s soft breaths against his face.

In that instance, however, Lance clears his throat, breaking the tension with an uncertain chuckle and finally letting go of Keith’s hands. “You had fun too, right?” He asks a bit nervously as he scratches at the back of his neck, suddenly unable to look Keith in the eye.

Fun. There’s that word again. Piano isn’t supposed to be about fun. And yet.

“Yeah,” Keith shakes his head, and against all odds, he even feels himself smiling a little. “Yeah I did.”

Lance looks at him, examines his face, his smile, and then breaks out into a shit-eating grin of his own. “I knew you would.”

“No you didn’t,” Keith scoffs out of reflex, smacking Lance in the arm as if the contact is the most natural thing in the word.

.x.X.x.

That night in bed, as he pulls up the number Lance forcefully added to his phone, Keith wonders exactly how someone like Lance, attractive and charismatic and undeniably talented, could have gone so long without being noticed. 

Or rather, how could he have gone so long without being noticed by _Keith_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another video for those of you not familiar with Beethoven's Kreutzer!
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OF9fneQ50Us
> 
> I picked this video for a couple of reasons, but mainly for the tempo. This feels like a piece Lance would really have fun with, and in my mind, that means he'd probably pick up the pace quite a bit just out of sheer energy and enthusiasm. (I totally headcanon him as someone who has a nasty habit of fraying the shit out of his bow, like, all the fucking time) It's also just shy of where Keith would probably play it out of personal challenge and maybe a hint of stubbornness.
> 
> For the jury, they would probably either play an abridged version of the first movement or the first movement in it's entirety, which is roughly the first thirteen minutes of the video. If you're at all a fan of classical music, it's totally worth at least watching to there.
> 
> Anyway, enough ramblings from the music nerd. Thank you for reading!


	3. Third Movement: Inquieto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **_Inquieto_** \- literally “restless” or “anxious” meaning to perform the music in a restless manner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all again for your kudos and comments. Even if I don't respond, just know that it makes my day every time.

When Lance isn’t in Theory 301 the next day, Keith shoots him a text. It feels invasive, especially considering Keith’s only intimate contacts currently begin and end with Shiro, but he watches himself hit send as if its an out of body experience. The response doesn’t come until halfway through the class.

**slept in, it says. needed my beauty sleep**

Keith rolls his eyes at that, though the smirk he feels tugging at his lips offsets it quite a bit.

 _It’s three in the afternoon_ , Keith shoots back, careful not to let Coran see him on his phone. _No one needs that much beauty sleep._

 **u say that but have you seen me?** Lance replies after another moment or two. **it takes a lot to look this gorgeous**

Keith is grinning full on now, eyes locked on the screen in a way that will definitely get him in trouble if he’s spotted. But for some reason, he doesn’t seem to care. _Better go back to sleep then. You’ve still got a lot of work to do._

 **har har** , says the next message, the sarcasm evident. **don’t act like your not picking up what im putting down**

And Keith freezes. Is Lance flirting with him? Asking him if he thinks he’s hot? Or is he still joking? A rush of heat settles in Keith’s cheeks that he doesn’t quite know what to do with. He opts for leaving the message as is, a half finished joke, and returning to the lesson. Not that he can focus on much past picking apart all the little things about Lance’s appearance he might possibly find attractive. His soft face and tan skin, his passionate gaze and overly enthusiastic smile, the atmosphere about him when he plays, his frame and his hair and how he’s just a tad bit taller than Keith is and-

Oh. Oh shit.

Keith grabs the phone and types out a quick, _You wish_ , in response, hitting send before he can convince himself not to. In retrospect, though, he’s not sure if that makes things better or worse.

.x.X.x.

“Keith!” Lance calls out to him from the other side of campus later that evening. Keith’s on his way to the café for dinner, only an hour between now and his late night lab, but he comes to a stop regardless, waiting for Lance to catch up. When he does, Lance is winded but excited, his face flushed. “Check it out, check it out!” He beams, shoving a flyer into Keith’s face. 

It’s a little too close to read properly, but he manages to make out the words **PIANO** and **COMPETITION** amidst the chaos of fancy lettering and squares of colorful information. Keith’s neck prickles at the idea, stomach sinking. Doing his best not to show it, he forcefully lowers Lance’s hand out of his face and raises an eyebrow at him in what he hopes is indifference.

“So?”

“So?” Lance repeats, incredulous and then excited again. “So you should do it!”

Without warning, Keith turns back towards the café, leaving Lance behind as quickly as he can without looking too suspicious. “No thanks.”

“What?” Lance calls out in disbelief, his long stride helping him catch up to Keith far too quickly. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to,” Keith offers, albeit a bit sharper than he intended. He makes sure his next words are more even. “Playing for you was a one time thing. I don’t do that anymore.”

“Hate to break it to you, buddy,” Lance smirks, a familiar gesture Keith can even see from his periphery. “But what you did yesterday was _definitely_ not One Time Thing material.”

He doesn’t mean to, he really doesn’t, but Keith whirls on him.

“How do you know?” Lance takes a step back and Keith steps in, crowding into his personal space. “We’ve played together once, Lance. _Once._ And that was basically because you forced me into it. Did you even stop to consider that there might be a reason I don’t play piano anymore? No. Scratch that. You don’t know anything about me and I don’t care, so just get off your high horse and stop acting like you know what’s best for me. I don’t want to play anymore, alright?”

For a split second, Lance looks stunned and almost hurt, something fragile and broken fracturing into his expression before it glazes over in an expression akin to fury. “Forced you?” He says, crowding even further into Keith’s proximity until the two of them are very nearly nose to nose. “Sure, alright. I forced you. Well a lot of good that did me. I failed my jury _and_ you still refuse to play the piano. So fine. You don’t want to play anymore? Then don’t.” He pulls away just enough for Keith to see the venomous look in his eye. “I’d tell you it’s a fucking waste, but I’m pretty sure you already know that,” he spits out, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t know what you’re running away from, Keith, but it’s not doing you or anybody else any good.”

It shouldn’t be, he’s heard it all before, but still it’s like a slap to the face. Keith physically flinches beneath it, taking a step back as if separating himself from Lance might separate himself from the harshness of the words. It doesn’t.

Keith turns on his heel and storms off. They don’t hear from each other for the rest of the week.

.x.X.x.

That Sunday, Keith finds himself sitting at his usual spot in the café, nothing but himself, a book, and a cup of overly sweetened coffee. At least for the first thirty minutes.

“Hey,” a voice appears at his side, followed seconds later by a girl with glasses and fly away hair. The girl from Lance’s Music At Midnight performance. Without prompting, she sits herself down in front of Keith at the tiny café table and just… stares at him.

“Pidge,” another voice groans, the guy attached to it making his way from behind Keith to a spot at the girl’s side, his gaze bouncing from her to Keith and back in obvious nervousness. “Pidge,” he says again, and even though the girl has yet to take her eyes off Keith, he continues on with the expectation that she’s listening. “We don’t need to do this.”

“Cool it, Hunk,” the girl says, holding up a hand to silence him. When Hunk’s mouth falls shut with an audible click, Keith is weirdly reminded of a tiny mob boss and her muscle-prone lackey.

Pidge doesn’t say anything for a while, long enough that Keith puts down his book and resigns himself to meeting her stare for stare while he waits. Eventually, she places her elbows on the table and leans forward, chin resting on her intertwined fingers.

“Look,” she says. “I don’t know what you did to Lance, but he’s been moody and inconsolable all week, so apologize.”

“What I did?” Keith scoffs, leaning back in his chair and throwing this Pidge girl a pointed stare. “He’s the one who-”

Pidge holds up a hand in a similar fashion to how she’d silenced the big guy Hunk, and regardless of Keith’s attempt at arguing further, he somehow finds himself silenced.

“I don’t like all this,” Pidge starts, and as much as Keith wants her to elaborate, he has a feeling she wouldn’t. So he lets her continue. “Lance has been having a hard enough time without you-” She stops, looks Keith up and down, and then sighs. “Without all this shit. So whatever it is that’s got your panties in a twist, you and Lance need to figure it out asap, because I’m tired of the late night phone calls.”

Be it positive or negative, the idea that Lance might have been calling this girl in the middle of the night to talk about Keith makes something strange and pleasant sputter to life at the center of his chest. Something that Keith steadfastly ignores.

“I wasn’t trying to start anything,” Keith says instead, keeping his gaze firmly locked on hers. As if measuring the worth of it, the legitimacy of it, Pidge holds firm, even going so far as to eye him up and down at one point. Keith shivers a bit under the weight of that stare, but he never breaks eye contact, not once.

“Do you like him?” Pidge says all of a sudden, and Keith’s mind whites out.

“What?” He hears himself say, the word distant and alien sounding. “I don’t… What do you mean? Like as a person? Or a violinist?”

For a long, pregnant moment, Pidge just stares at him again. But then, out of nowhere, she grins, finally breaking eye contact to look up at Hunk. “We should get out of here.”

She doesn’t give Hunk the chance to respond, jumping to her feet and patting Hunk on the arm as she passes, expecting him to follow. Surprisingly enough, he doesn’t. Instead, he leans in towards Keith a little and smiles.

“Sorry about that.” He says. “Pidge can come on a little strong.” 

Keith just shrugs, a question crawling to the tip of his tongue. _Why did she ask me that? He wants to say. Did Lance want her to ask me that? Has he been thinking about me like that?_ And more importantly, _So I didn’t ruin everything?_ But none of those questions manage to breach the surface, and after a moment, Hunk goes on regardless.

“Lance is our friend. And whatever is going on between you two… Just don’t hurt him, okay?” His face is serious even if his voice is a little unsure. Keith opens his mouth to argue, but Hunk must be able to spot it, cutting him off at the pass. “Not to say you’re a thing or anything, just. Lance doesn’t need heartbreak on top of everything else right now.” Hun pauses, eyebrows scrunching together almost comically as he waves a hand in front of his face. “Or… _Another_ heartbreak, I guess. I mean, he’s already dealing with one so. But that’s beside the point.”

Multiple aspects of that tirade register all at once. _A thing. Heartbreak. Another heartbreak. Everything else._ The implications beneath them are vague and not very telling, but the heaviness, the seriousness, is definitely palpable.

A separate question pops into Keith’s head, and despite the lack of proper context, he can’t seem to stop it from tumbling out of his mouth.

“Are you two… the ones who bailed on him for his jury?” Keith asks, a sort of frustration on Lance’s behalf crawling beneath his skin. Hunk, however, merely looks down at Keith in genuine confusion.

“I thought you played with him for his jury.”

Keith can’t help the light scoff, the barely restrained roll of his eyes. “Only because he refused to find another accompanist after you guys bailed out of the original trio.”

A moment passes as Hunk eyes Keith, face scrunching in steadily growing confusion. Then eventually he smiles, the expression equal parts remaining bewilderment and something possibly resembling pity.

“Lance never asked us to be in a trio.”

.x.X.x.

Keith wakes to a text the next morning, phone illuminating the entire small, dark space of his single dorm room. Cracking an eye open in disapproval, he fumbles on his nightstand to unplug it from the charger, staring blearily at the too-bright screen once it’s free.

 **so pidge and hunk talked to you i take it?** the text says. Keith huffs out a frustrated breath into his pillow, way too tired to deal with Lance right now.

He types back a succinct, _Yup._

 **figures** , appears almost instantly once the text goes through, followed by an equally quick, **what did they say?**

Against his better judgment, Keith rolls over on to his back, propping himself up on his pillow to better focus on the screen.

_They told me to apologize to you._

**and?**

Keith rolls his eyes at the screen, typing a bit more forcefully than is probably necessary. _If anyone should apologize, it’s you for being a pushy, self-absorbed dick._

Even though Keith watches the notification pop up alerting him that Lance has seen his message, nothing happens for a moment. Briefly, and with a nervousness he can’t quite place, Keith wonders if that was too mean. He still won’t apologize, even if so, but the idea makes his stomach hurt.

Thankfully, or perhaps regretfully, Lance replies a few minutes later. **i am disinclined to acquiesce to your request**

Keith stares at the words for a long time, probably too long. But… What? Apparently Keith’s silence stretches on long enough that Lance even feels the need to add, **means no**

 _I know what it means_ , Keith types back quickly, face burning. _I just don’t get the point of the formality._

 **…** Lance replies, which seems redundant considering the speech bubble filled with moving ellipses that pops up whenever he types. He follows it up, however, with the words, **havent u ever seen pirates of the caribbean?**

And if Keith’s face had felt warm before, the embarrassment that floods him makes his cheeks feel near to burning. That’s beside the point, he types back quickly. And then before Lance can reply with something sarcastic, or more pop culture references for that matter, Keith bites the bullet and sends him the question at the forefront of his mind. 

_So why did you lie about the trio?_

Silence ensues. No sassy remarks or additional lies, not even an ellipses, speech bubble or otherwise. Just the small notification beneath Keith’s message: Seen – 9:13 am. Keith waits, though. He waits for nearly fifteen minutes. Somehow, he’s not surprised with Lance’s eventual response.

**why don’t you play anymore?**

Keith buries his face in the pillow in lieu of responding. Though he has a feeling Lance wasn’t expecting one anyway.

.x.X.x.

**what are u doing after class today?**

Keith reads the text as he settles into his seat, everything for Theory 301 already unpacked and laid on out the table. He raises an eyebrow at the message, looking towards the clock that hangs over the classroom door.

_Why are you texting me when you can just ask me in person in five minutes?_

**not going to class today**

_What? Why not?_

**got stuff to do**

_You’re gonna fail if you don’t start coming to class more often._

**dont i kno it… lol**

Keith stares at that last one for a while; something in the phrasing or underlying tone makes him uneasy. In the end, he caves.

 _I don’t have any plans_ , he finally types out and sends. _After class I mean. Why?_

**sweet!!! meet me at the west side campus entrance at seven!**

_What for??_

**i wanna show u something!!**

Maybe it’s the overabundance of exclamation points, maybe it’s just simple curiosity, but Keith finds himself huffing out a soft laugh as he types back his response.

_Alright fine. Meet you there._

.x.X.x.

Just as he said he’d be, Keith sees Lance waiting for him at the columned entrance to the west side of campus. Not really sure why, Keith zeros in on the bright blue wife beater he’s sporting, the way it accentuates his arms and shoulders and pairs weirdly well with his white shorts and neon colored snapback. He looks relaxed, leaning against one of the columns and staring out towards the street.

It’s not difficult to believe that this Lance and the Lance from his jury, or the Lance that had completely owned Music at Midnight, are the same person. There’s an atmosphere about him, an aura that just seems to lure people in regardless of where he’s playing or what he’s doing. Even if that’s just standing, apparently.

Standing and suddenly looking at Keith, waving him over with an enthusiastic smile.

Keith picks up the pace, bowing his head a bit in the hopes that by the time he catches up to Lance, his face won’t be nearly as red.

“Took you long enough!” Lance says as soon as he’s in earshot, but there’s hardly any weight to the scolding. Keith scoffs for good measure.

“It’s barely 7:04.”

“Which is four whole minutes past performance time and at least fourteen whole minutes past call,” Lance tsks, waving a finger in Keith’s face. “And you call yourself a musician.”

The laugh escapes him before he can stop it, so Keith counterbalances with a curt, “You expect me to believe you’ve been waiting out here for fifteen minutes?”

Not missing a beat, Lance leans in with a smirk, the proximity close enough that Keith feels himself straighten out of reflex. “And what if I was?”

A beat passes where Keith forgets to breathe. Thankfully, he comes back to himself in time to take a step away and prevent any further embarrassment. “This coming from the guy who had “stuff” to do so he couldn’t come to class.”

A look flashes across Lance’s face so suddenly Keith barely registers its appearance, maybe sad or guilty or at the very least uncomfortable. But it’s quickly replaced by another smug grin, and Keith forgets. “Aw. Did you miss me?”

“I missed kicking your ass at quizzes.”

“I think you’ve got us confused, but I’ll give it a pass for now,” Lance says in complete seriousness, and Keith can’t help but smile. “We should get going anyway. Come on.” From next to the column where it’s gone otherwise unnoticed, Lance picks up his violin case and slings it over his shoulder, motioning for Keith to follow as he turns down the sidewalk.

They walk down the street for a while, heading in the direction of somewhere to experience something. Keith has never been one for surprises, and patience has never been his strong suit either, so it doesn’t take long before he clears his throat and breaks the otherwise comfortable silence.

“So are you going to tell me what’s so important?”

As expected, Lance just shrugs. “Eventually.”

Keith hums noncommittally, but he can already feel the next question itching at the back of his throat. “Are you going to tell me where we’re going then?”

Again, short and sweet and frustratingly vague. “I will when we get there.”

Keith swallows back the childish, _That would defeat the purpose then_ , and instead just allows them both to walk in silence again. For all of five minutes. 

“So why do you have your violin with you?”

A breath of sound escapes him, half groan and half laugh, as Lance looks over his shoulder. “You ask a lot of questions, you know that?”

Even though it doesn’t come off as intentionally cruel, Keith still bristles a bit, shoving his hands in his pockets and doing his best to ignore the image of Lance in his periphery as he goes on. “All right then. Last one.” Apparently eyes are simply unable to help themselves, because he finds himself sparing Lance a sidelong glace regardless. “Are you going to tell me why you lied about your jury?”

Lance doesn’t miss a beat. “Are you going to tell me why you decided to stop playing piano despite the fact that you clearly love it and miss it and are ridiculously, stupidly amazing at it?”

The compliments aside, Keith feels the usual pang of cold and distant pain, the sick drop of his stomach. Lance is still looking forward, a knowing expression on his face. And Keith accepts defeat.

“Fair enough.”

It’s about ten minutes later before Keith can bring himself to speak again, Lance apparently content to walk in silence, which seems relatively out of character for what Keith has seen of him so far. He wonders if maybe Lance is doing it on purpose, trying to get Keith to initiate more of the conversation. Or maybe it’s the opposite. Maybe Lance doesn’t actually want to talk, the silence indicative of leftover annoyance. 

“Are you mad?” Keith spits out as if the words themselves have a life of their own. He flushes instantly, steadfastly keeping his eyes forward. Regardless, he can see Lance shift his attention to the right, staring at Keith for a moment.

“What? Why would I be?”

Keith just shrugs, but again, despite every part of him attempting to keep the words in, he hears himself mumble, “Because I didn’t… apologize… like your friends told me to.” 

Lance has a strange effect on him, he realizes. Or perhaps, realized quite a bit ago and ignored vehemently, as Keith does.

“Were you going to apologize?” Lance asks after a beat, and if Keith didn’t know any better, he’d swear there was humor lingering just beneath the words.

So Keith, as he is want to do, strays towards the comfort of stubborn denial. “No. Of course not.”

Lance definitely chuckles to himself then, soft enough that Keith isn’t sure he was even meant to hear it.

“Guess it’s a moot point then.”

“Yeah. Guess so,” Keith shoots back, and for some reason, the silence that follows after that feels lighter.

After a roughly thirty minute walk, most of which spent on pointless small talk or semi-comfortable silence, they arrive at a warehouse looking building in a shoddier part of the city. Keith looks at the area with a less than subtle expression of distaste.

“So you brought me here to murder me and sell my organs on the black market.”

“That’s only on Thursdays,” Lance replies matter-of-factly, walking around the edge of the building like it’s something he’s done a million times before. “On Tuesdays this place is a whore house.”

An involuntary noise scratches at the back of this throat, and the look of apprehension and disgust must show on his face, because Lance practically chokes himself laughing. “I’m kidding dude,” he says once he manages to catch his breath, coughing a bit as he straightens. “Don’t be so paranoid. As far as underground DJ-ing goes, this place is actually pretty high class.”

“Why doesn’t that make me feel any better?” Keith mumbles, following Lance up to the door. Then the words finally register. “Wait. Underground what now?”

Either Lance doesn’t hear him or ignores him completely. Considering Keith’s words are perfectly timed with Lance pushing open a side door and letting a melee of sound fill the street, both seem equally plausible. Loud music pulses from inside the building, seeping out into the open in waves that practically ripple the air itself.

Underground Dj-ing, Lance had said, but for as much as Keith understands the logistics of such a thing, he still can fathom any reason _he_ should be there. In fact, he turns to Lance to tell him as such, but the violinist is already sauntering inside like he owns the place. Bastard.

Keith follows behind him quickly, the door closing with a click that goes unheard beneath the added volume of the music’s proximity. Lance leads him down a short hallway and to what looks like the main entrance, a large archway semi-closed off with thick, red velvet curtains separating them from the source of the noise. A muscular looking woman with a dark brown bob and rather impressive hoop earrings sits on a stool to the left of it, flipping through a magazine as if barely interested. When Lance approaches, he clears his throat in a way that’s unexpectedly rude, and Keith takes a step forward with a start, ready to apologize.

Before he can, however, the girl looks up in surprise, registers the source of the noise, and then beams.

“Lance!” She all but sings as she puts down her magazine and gets to her feet. “I was wondering if you were coming this week.”

“Running a little late thanks to this asshole,” Lance replies, pointing a thumb over his shoulder at Keith, though his tone remains jovial. “But I wouldn’t miss it. Gotta keep up appearances and what not.”

The girl laughs, looking from Lance to Keith with a smile that seems far too friendly for someone who she hasn’t even met yet. “And who _is_ your friend?”

“Fresh meat, that’s what,” Lance replies, and a shiver runs down Keith’s spine.

“Stop it,” the girl scolds, playfully hitting Lance in the arm. “You’re scaring him.”

“Preparing him,” Lance corrects at the same time that Keith says, completely involuntarily, “I’m not scared.” Keith then proceeds to blush at least eighty shades of red under the partially surprised, partially amused gazes of the two, nearly shrinking under the embarrassment of his own outburst. Thankfully, Lance doesn’t tease him much at all, choosing instead to segway to introductions. “Keith, this is Shay, the bouncer here,” he says first, then motions with unnecessary flourish in Keith’s direction. “And Shay, this is Keith. He’s a pianist.”

“Oh!” Shay suddenly straightens, smiling even brighter if that’s possible. “So he’s going to-”

“Uh uh!” Lance cuts her off with a shake of his head. “Don’t give away the surprise. He hasn’t even seen the inside of Voltron yet.” Shay raises an eyebrow at the secrecy, looking once again from Lance to Keith and back. As if Keith wasn’t suspicious enough before.

“You mean he doesn’t know about-?”

“Shay,” Lance interrupts again, grin smooth and persuasive, and after a moment, the bouncer seems to give in. While her posture remains a bit unsure, her smile is genuine, a fondness in her eyes as she shrugs.

“Alright,” she says. “But Nyma’s on tonight, so try not to upset her this time. You don’t want to get booted before he even gets on stage.”

Lance actually stiffens a little at this. “For the record, she handcuffed me to a stop sign. I think that qualifies as first blood.”

“And you’ve been bitter about it ever since,” Shay throws back with a grin, but Lance merely clicks his tongue and looks away.

“Vengeful,” he says. “I think the word you’re looking for is vengeful.”

“Just get in there,” Shay motions to the archway with a laugh. “The last set is almost over.”

“You got it, boss!” Lance offers Shay a two-fingered salute before stepping behind Keith and physically pushing him through the curtain.

The music doubles the moment they’re inside, pounding beneath Keith’s feet and settling in a blanket of sound against his skin. The club, Voltron apparently, is somehow larger than Keith expected it to be from the outside. Most of the space is cleared out, a large portion dedicated to dancing and mingling while the periphery gives way to multiple bars and a raised, stage-like platform where a DJ and two saxophonists are currently performing. Lights flash and colors bleed into the walls, onto the dance floor, in perfect sync with the music, everything swirling into a mass of sensation that’s nearly overwhelming.

The touch of a hand wrapping around his wrist pulls Keith out of his initial trance, and when Keith looks down, follows that arm up, Lance is looking at him with a grin. His lips form words that Keith can’t hear, and then he’s motioning with his chin in the direction of the stage, pulling Keith along. Reluctantly, Keith follows.

As they approach, the song seems to come to an end, the music swelling and the beat thrumming harder, deeper, before dying out beneath the sound of applause.

“Give it up for the Brothers Galra!” The DJ shouts into her mic and the crowd responds vigorously, the two saxophonists bowing in tandem before leaving the stage. The DJ, a tall girl with long, blond hair pulled into fashionably high pigtails, glances around the dance floor. “That’s gonna be a hard act to follow, guys, but who wants to give it a go?”

Lance’s grip on Keith’s wrist tightens and pulls, and suddenly Keith’s being lured up the stairs to the left of the stage. Something dangerous and cold grips at the very center of Keith’s chest.

“Nyma!” Lance shouts, grabbing the DJ’s attention, and she whips around in surprise. A surprise which shifts very quickly into a very familiar-looking annoyance. She puts a hand on her hip, smile entirely sardonic.

“And here I thought I was gonna make it a whole Tuesday without your irritating face defiling my stage.”

“Nice to see you too, beautiful,” Lance shoots back with a wink, and Keith groans, accidentally grabbing the DJ’s attention.

“New friend?” Nyma raises an eyebrow. “Isn’t it usually the chick with the cello and the big guy? Your other violinist friend?”

“First off,” Lance says, already unpacking his violin. “Hunk plays the viola. And second, it’s just me and Keith tonight.”

That grip at the center of Keith’s chest tightens. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Is it now?” Nyma smirks, ignoring Keith’s question in favor of looking him up and down. “And what does Keith play?”

“Piano,” Lance answers for him, balancing his violin between his chin and shoulder as he plucks at a few notes, checking the pitch. “You guys still have that keyboard set up, right?”

“You know we do,” Nyma replies, motioning towards the right side of the stage. When Keith glances over, he sees a few instruments tucked away, a drum set and a rather impressive looking keyboard amongst them. His stomach drops, one hand reaching out in Lance’s direction and yanking on the first thing he feels. It happens to be the bottom of Lance’s shirt, the fabric scrunching in his grip and forcing Lance to stumble closer.

“Lance,” Keith breathes, pulling his eyes away from the keyboard and looking Lance dead in the eye. “What the fuck is going on?”

The expression on Lance’s face is complicated, part excited, part guilty, part determined, and all of that laced with an undercurrent of someone waiting to be yelled at. Still, he smiles when he pulls his shirt out of Keith’s hand, motioning with a sweeping gesture at the club.

“Welcome to Voltron Open Mic Night!”


	4. Fourth Movement: Ad Libitum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **_Ad Libitum_** : at the pleasure of the performer. Usually it is used to indicate that a part of a piece may be omitted (in a piece with several instruments or voices) or it can indicate that the performer is free to “improvise” and/or vary the tempo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking longer than expected to get this update out there. The holidays have been kicking my ass at work a bit... But I've still been writing and editing as best I can, so I'll try to be swifter on the upkeep this time around.
> 
> As always, to everyone who left comments, kudos, or even just read and enjoyed, I wholeheartedly thank you.

Keith doesn’t know whether to feel betrayed or terrified. Probably a little of both.

“No,” he says firmly, turning on his heel and fully preparing to stomp off stage, down the stairs, away from Lance’s stupid face. But Lance’s hand on his wrist again stops him.

“Come on, buddy. Trust me.” 

For some reason, Keith turns back around at that, though not without putting what feels like a very unimpressed look on his face.

“Look,” Lance goes on, placing his violin down on one of the speakers and grabbing both of Keith’s hands in his. It feels vaguely reminiscent to that moment after Lance’s jury, and Keith has no idea how to feel about the way his stomach flips at the memory. Lance captures his gaze and doesn’t let go. 

“This isn’t for a grade or a competition or anything even mildly important,” he says. “Nobody here is waiting to be impressed. They just want to have a good time and listen to good music. Sometimes it’s okay to just have fun with it and play.”

“This isn’t a practice room, Lance,” Keith hisses back, but he can feel his resolve crumbling. “This is-”

“A chance for you to let loose a little!” Lance finishes for him, letting go of his hands. “No over analyzing, no practicing. Just listen to what Nyma puts down and play what you feel. It’ll be fun, I promise.”

That tightness in his chest is still there, the desire to run stronger than ever, but Keith stays rooted in place, eyeing the keyboard in the corner like it’s about to explode.

“Are we doing this or what?” Nyma calls out from where she’s put herself back behind her mixing station. “The crowd’s waiting.”

Keith opens his mouth to say no, but Lance is smiling at him, saying the words, “You trust me, right?” and suddenly Keith is sighing and nodding and walking towards the keyboard. He doesn’t know _why_ he trusts Lance, he really has no reason to… but he does.

“Alright!” Nyma says into the mic. Her voice echoes loudly over the background music as Keith and Lance get situated. “Next up, I’m sure most of you know this asshole,” she introduces Lance with a halfhearted gesture and he raises his violin to the nearly explosive and apparently familiar sound of applause. “But joining him for the first time is our own personal Mozart. Give it up for Keith on keyboards!” The cheering continues, despite the way hearing his name associated with a piano virtuoso does nothing to calm his frazzled nerves.

Thankfully, and as if by some act of kismet, Lance decides to stand just in front of the keyboard and to Keith’s right, angling himself in a way that Keith and he can look at each other without drawing too much attention. Again, he’s reminded instantly of the jury, of holding Lance’s gaze and letting the connection there distract him from his thoughts, focus on the notes, on the music, on simply playing.

_Sometimes it’s okay to just have fun with it and play._

As if sensing Keith’s attention, Lance glances over at him and grins. Keith doesn’t quite manage to smile back, but he does offer Lance another nod, which seems to be enough, Lance’s smile widening.

“Okay, boys,” Nyma chimes back in. “The name of the game is improv. Whenever the beat hits ya, hit us with all you’ve got.”

A record scratches, a beat drops, and suddenly the beginnings of a dubstep accompaniment is pulsing out of the speakers, waiting to be completed with some melody. Lance dives in without hesitation, drawing his bow along the strings in short bursts of sound that intertwine with the bass. Keith waits, listening to see where Lance might go, but it becomes obvious quite quickly that Lance isn’t playing the melody.

No. For that, Lance seems to be waiting for him.

Keith swallows, analyzes the root chords of the dubstup accompaniment with Lance’s ornamentation, and takes one last deep breath before diving in. He focuses primarily on his right hand at first, plucking out a melody that coexists well with the bass line. Then, as he gets comfortable, as he recognizes the repetition of the line and starts to experiment, he works to throw in broken chords and flourished melody lines, gradually picking up speed and confidence. 

The song seems to create itself. From a logical standpoint, Keith knows that the underlining music has gone unchanged, that the beat is the same as the bass line is the same as the DJ’s mix is the same, but as Keith plays, the song evolves. As he grows more comfortable, Keith starts inadvertently doing his best to tie in the violin with Nyma’s mix, using everything he knows to create a melody that highlights them both.

There’s no time for distraction, no time for a lack of confidence, just as Lance had said. And as Nyma had proclaimed, _The name of the game is improv_ , which Keith finds himself taking to like a fish in water. 

Occasionally, Lance will glance his way, maintaining his harmony to Keith’s exuberant melody, the two of them near to laughing at how fluidly their parts intertwine. Keith has no time to wonder what his fingers are doing or what his mind is coming up with before he is on to the next measure, allowing an organic sense of musicality to envelope him completely.

And when Lance leans in towards the keyboard, letting his bow run in octave jumps along the strings, Keith feels his heart jump with it, feels a sense of perfection he hasn’t felt in years. His fingers move as though they’ve practiced the melody a million times before. His heart beats in time to the heavy bass. His eyes linger between keys and Lance like both of which are responsible for the energy currently thrumming through him. And maybe, when Keith thinks about it, it’s not too outlandish to consider.

Lance stands before Keith, posture straight and bow working the strings of his violin like a master, and Keith almost forgets to keep playing. Never before has he seen such a perfect embodiment of music. 

No.

Not just of music. Of _life_.

A switch flips, Keith’s melody developing a life of its own, classical flairs incorporating with heavily punctuated bass lines. He wants to play with Lance. He _wants_ to play. It’s not for the audience, it’s not for the recognition, he just wants to take this moment and enjoy it, live and breathe the perfect collaboration that’s steadily unfolding. And he wants to do that with Lance. He’s never wanted something so strongly in his life.

Lance seems to notice Keith’s attention, ripping his bow along the strings in a series of sharp notes before winking in his direction. Keith’s hands nearly stumble over themselves, but still, he plays, keeping up with Lance as best he can. It’s not classical, it’s not recognizable, but he pounds out line after line, matching Lance measure for measure.

And god _damn_ if it isn’t the most fun Keith has had playing the piano in a long, long time. Maybe ever.

A flub of one of his chords leaves Lance snorting. An awkward riff on Lance’s part has Keith shaking his head, playing extra ornamentation to cover it up, but both of them are smiling. Both of them are laughing and competing and taking each note as it comes, working towards nothing and everything all at once.

Nyma cuts the accompaniment not long after, the bass line throwing in a measure’s more of beats before fading out as well. But it doesn’t matter. Lance keeps playing and Keith lets his fingers fly over their melody. They play for no more than thirty seconds before drawing to a close, but in those thirty seconds, Keith swears he’s never been closer to a person in his life. 

When it’s finally over, Keith feels almost empty. Until he notices that Lance and he are both panting and grinning, wired from the adrenaline of it, and when they look out at the crowd, everyone is currently in an uproar over the performance.

Regardless of how many times Keith has played in front of an audience, regardless of how many competitions he’s been in, he knows right then and there that this was different. This was something special.

“Let’s hear it one more time for Lance and Keith!” Nyma cheers right alongside the crowd, allowing for Keith to tear himself away from the keyboard just long enough to get to his feet and bow. Lance is probably on his second or third by the time Keith comes up from his first, but Keith can’t bring himself to care. He feels alive with energy, like everything is possible. Playing has never felt like this, playing with someone has never felt like this. 

And when he looks over at Lance, there’s a look of understanding there, an expression on his face that Keith doesn’t just relate to so much as exemplify. Keith reaches out before he can stop himself, and grabs onto Lance’s hand, raising their intertwined fingers above his head. He forces them both to bow once, twice, and then Lance forcefully pulls Keith away from the stage. 

His violin case has returned to his back, Keith notices, his wrist still held captive as Lace pulls them both back down the stairs and through the heavy velvet curtain of the entrance. Shay seems about to say something, but Lance tosses her a thumbs up and keeps pulling, Keith’s expression matching Shay’s confusion for confusion. 

A few seconds later and they’ve burst back into the bustling atmosphere of the city, the whole world fading from late evening to night while they were inside.

“That was-” Keith tries to say, but Lance just laughs, keeping his grip firm around Keith’s wrist.

“Amazing?” Lance cuts off, already starting to pull Keith down the sidewalk. “Unbelievable, incredible, a paradigm of entertainment?” And then, as if in complete juxtaposition, Lance adds softer, “I couldn’t have done it without you, you know.”

Keith feels a blush crawl all the way down his neck. “I think you’ve got that backwards.”

Lance doesn’t argue, but Keith notices the way his soft smile tugs back into a smirk. When Lance finally lets go of his wrist, Keith tries not to feel disappointed, but he swears his whole hand feels colder.

“So, while we’re here,” Lance says all of a sudden, though, as distracting as always. “There’s this place around the corner that’s pretty cool. Wanna check it out?”

Keith doesn’t hesitate; he doesn’t need to. “Sure.”

This place is only a five minute walk from the club, one back street leading to another until Lance is leading Keith up to a park. Even at night, the sudden backdrop of nature is a soothing contrast to the metal and cement of the city.

Lance walks through the park with noticeable familiarity, following a very specific path. They pass wrought iron benches and antique looking lamp posts, trees that block out the sky and giant rocks that look like they’ve been there for centuries. And they do all of this in a comfortable silence Keith would have never believed they could one day experience. Not with Lance, Mr. Brash and Obnoxious, and not with Keith, the introvert with PTSD. It’s strange, he realizes, how quickly somebody can go from no one at all to someone unexpectedly important.

Eventually, Lance leads them to what must be the center of the small park. The path gives way to a large, manmade lake that stretches out a surprising distance, the edge of it marked by buildings that Keith knows to be miles away. The water is calm and clear, reflecting the moon above and the lights in the buildings’ windows like shimmering phantoms of their former selves. It’s honestly one of the most beautiful sights Keith has ever seen. But when he opens his mouth to say so, Lance cuts him off.

“This might be my favorite place in the world.”

Lance is leaning on the railing that separates the path from the lake, his chin cushioned on his crossed arms. Keith imagines that Lance’s reflection in the water must be shimmering too, but that just might be him in general. He’s always been like light itself, shining from the inside out no matter what he’s doing. Playing, talking, arguing. Keith leans against the railing at his side.

“I always figured your favorite place in the world would be on stage.”

Lance hums thoughtfully, closing his eyes. “Hm. Close second.”

That comfortable silence from before stretches around them again, a soothing blanket of ambient noise and shimmering lights on the edges of the lake. Keith almost doesn’t want to break it, but he does.

“Lance,” he starts, and the feel of his name on Keith’s tongue, the sound of that name ringing softly between them, feels buoyant somehow, like floating on the lake itself. So he says it again. “Lance… Why are you doing all this?”

“Hm?”

Keith takes a breath, his voice softer. He’s not suspicious anymore, not really. Just curious. “Your jury, Voltron. All of it. Why are you trying so hard?” 

Lance keeps his eyes out towards the water, and when he answers, it’s without hesitation or uncertainty, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Because I want to play with you.”

And so begets the most important question then, doesn’t it? “But why? Why me?”

“I guess,” Lance starts off, lifting his chin away from his arms and straightening. “It’s like watching a magic trick. It shouldn’t be possible, but it is. You watch the guy in the fancy hat pull a queen of hearts out of some dude’s pocket and for just a second, magic exists. And you find yourself wanting to believe.” Finally, finally Lance looks away from the lake, his expression fond. “When you play, it feels like that. Like magic might be real.”

Be it a combination of those words and Lance’s soft expression, or the way Keith feels his face heat up and his heart stutter painfully in his chest, but suddenly he feels very awkward, not sure where to look or what to say. Which is probably why he opens his mouth and fucks everything up.

“That’s… Really gay.”

He’s a half a second from dying on the spot, when Lance just shoves him, laughing loudly. “Screw you, dude! We were having a moment.”

He still feels hot and flustered and definitely embarrassed, but Keith laughs too, the both of them resigning themselves to looking back at the water for a while. It doesn’t take long for Lance to chime in again though.

“I don’t know why you stopped playing the piano,” he says, and for the first time, there’s a hint of caution in his tone, like he isn’t sure about broaching the subject. “I know whatever it was must have been awful, and that you think about it a lot when you play, so I just… I thought maybe playing somewhere like Voltron might help. Like, new atmosphere, no sheet music, just messing around and having fun, that sort of thing. That’s all.”

The information settles behind Keith’s chest, warm and comforting. To think, Lance had done all this not just for another chance to play together, but as a distraction, something to help Keith forget for a while… For a brief moment, Keith greatly considers throwing his arms around Lance and pulling him close, just hugging him or kissing him or-

Wait.

“You were really good, by the way,” Lance cuts into that particular train of thought right on time, though not before Keith’s heart has all but stopped. When Keith looks over at him, Lance is grinning. “Like crazy good, you know that? I mean, I figured you’d be good for some improv, but I never thought you’d be able to keep up with me like that.” And then, after another gentle shove, he adds, “We really do make a good team.”

Keith smirks, shoving him back. “Yeah. We really do.” 

Another moment passes, and Keith feels the words bubbling to life at the back of his throat. He’s not sure why he does it, why it seems like the right time, but he looks out at the water again and runs with it. After everything he’s done, Lance deserves to know.

“My biological parents died when I was four,” he says, and the atmosphere seems to physically change. Lance glances at him in surprise, realization dawning as he waits for Keith to continue. It takes a while, but he does.

“I went through three different foster families before I met the Koganes. I don’t know if it was meant to be temporary at the time or if it was just me, but the longest I was with any of the others was three years. That was my second foster family. The ones who got me piano lessons in the first place. But the Koganes… They took me in and kept me. They were the first family I ever had that made me feel like I was actually a part of it.”

It still hurts to think about them, and Keith knows it probably always will, but talking about them feels strangely therapeutic too. Not like when he talks to Shiro, or avoids talking actually, but different. Like telling someone a secret and feeling lighter as you go. He’s been holding on to this one for a long time, it’s almost dizzying when the weight finally starts lifting.

“The Koganes got me back into piano lessons and helped me study for tests all through high school. Whenever I was in competitions, they were always in the audience or waiting back stage. They even drove me out here for my audition and took me out for dinner when I got in. Like it was a celebration. When I asked them why, they just said it was because I was their son and they were proud. I don’t think I’ve ever loved anyone as much as I loved them at that moment.”

The hard part is coming, he can feel it, but he presses on, forces himself to pull each word out of his own mouth until they’re scattered at his feet for Lance to see. Maybe Shiro was right. Maybe he should have been talking about it this whole time. Maybe he should have tried harder to heal. Maybe if he had, then it wouldn’t feel like fire clawing at the back of his throat.

“There was this competition last summer. Mom said I should take it off, use my summer to relax before freshman year kicked off, but I wanted to do it anyway, like some last hurrah before college or something. So I practiced the piece over and over. Chopin’s Ballade No. 1 in G minor, Op. 23. One of his best pieces, nine minutes long, and some of the hardest piano I’ve ever played. But I had it down perfectly. So, even though they were busy with work, even though they weren’t going to be able to make it to this one, I bussed myself to the music hall a few hours early to get ready. I was going to win it and they were going to be proud of me, just like after the audition. I just knew it.”

Whether Lance can hear it coming, or something just shows on Keith’s face, there’s suddenly a hand on his shoulder, squeezing just a bit. It’s a comfort, but also a nudge, one he didn’t realize he’d needed. So he swallows past the thickness in his throat and bites the bullet.

“Turns out, they’d taken off work. They were going to surprise me.” Keith’s voice is surprisingly steady, even if, on the inside, he feels like he’s shattering, each word shaking a broken piece of himself loose. “A semi forced their car into the railing while they were driving on the highway. It caused a five car pileup. They died instantly.” It takes Keith a moment to realize that the reason the image of the lake has started to shimmer and blur is because his eyes have started to tear up. He runs a hand over his face before they have the chance to fall, taking that moment to re-steady himself. When it feels a bit less like he might start crying, he barrels through the rest of it.

“I didn’t find out until right before my slot. When I didn’t answer my phone, Shiro came to the music hall to get me. He caught me right as I was about to go out on stage. When he told me what happened… It didn’t register at first. I don’t know if it was shock or if I’d just gone numb, but I- All I remember is turning away from him and going out on stage anyway. I made it three minutes in before it hit me. On stage, in front of the judges, the other contestants, I just _lost_ it. The piece I’d practiced for months was suddenly completely foreign, everything I’d memorized just gone. My fingers locked up, I think. Or they started stumbling over themselves. Either way, it was a mess, and I was a mess, and I must have stopped playing at some point, because Shiro had to come out on stage to get me.”

It’s still so vivid, like if he closed his eyes he could relive it detail for detail. Which is absurd, because on many levels, he barely remembers what happened on stage at all. He remembers bright lights and the grotesque clashing of the notes and Shiro physically pulling him away from the piano. But he doesn’t remember how far into the piece he got, doesn’t remember if he was crying, doesn’t remember Shiro taking him to the hospital.

“I was careless,” Keith breathes out, voice rough. “I’d gotten complacent, started to actually believe I could have that life I’d always envied, the one with a family that loved me and a good college and the piano. But just like that, and I was an orphan again. Just like that.”

“Dude…” Lance whispers, the sound of his voice weirdly calming amidst the white noise of his own rambling. “I’m so sorry.”

“I just,” Keith sighs, leaning bodily against the railing. “I tried playing again when I started school. I got that scholarship, you know? But every time I- Eventually I just gave up. It was too hard. Playing just reminded me of them, and how loving me had gotten them killed. Like, maybe if they hadn’t picked me, if I hadn’t been their son, they’d still be alive.”

Lance doesn’t say anything at first, and Keith has finally, thankfully, run out of words. But when Lance does speak, it’s not what Keith expects. 

“You know that’s stupid, right?”

Keith nearly gives himself whiplash turning to face Lance, eyes wide and the back of his neck prickling. “Excuse me?”

“It wasn’t your fault,” he explains, the same words Keith has heard Shiro say a million times before. So why does it sound different all of a sudden? “You aren’t some kind of psychic. Bad shit just happens sometimes, and it sucks and it hurts and you can’t help but think you did something to deserve it, but you didn’t. You don’t. And punishing yourself isn’t going to do you any good.”

“I’m not-”

“If you really wanted to stop playing, you’d have given up music all together,” Lance keeps going, facing Keith dead on now, a seriousness about him that Keith has never seen before. It very nearly leaves him speechless. “Piano is a part of you, and I think giving it up completely was just as painful. So you tortured yourself by staying close to it without ever letting yourself touch it.”

“The scholarship,” Keith offers weakly, shaking his head. “I had to stay in it. I couldn’t just-”

“Pretend all you want, Keith, but I’ve seen you play. Up close and personal. And that’s not the playing of someone who hates their instrument.”

Keith doesn’t exactly know how to respond to that. He’s played more the last month than he has in the entire year since his parents’ deaths. He’d be lying to himself if he said he hadn’t missed it.

“You were meant to play the piano,” Lance adds, voice softer now, less sternness to it than before. “You love it. And you’re amazing at it. And the thought of you not playing just… I guess I was hoping to wake you up a little, remind you of what you’ve been missing.”

There aren’t words to describe the feeling that settles beneath Keith’s skin just then, a thrumming or an ache maybe, something gentle and magnetic. He’s not really sure when it happened, but over the coarse of his confession, Lance had moved closer, their hands centimeters away from each other on the railing. He thinks he might even be able to feel Lance’s body heat radiating between them, keeping him warm.

“Thank you,” Keith hears himself whisper, his own voice alien and distant. Lance smiles at him, shrugging.

“I’m just glad you had fun tonight, buddy.” 

Keith snorts, his heart flipping. “Oh, we’re buddies now?” He jokes, reminded once again how quickly things change. 

Lance latches on with a grin. “Totally. Keith and Lance, best bros for-”

The rest of Lance’s sentence is muffled between their mouths, Keith’s lips pressing softly against his as if on autopilot. At first, Lance tenses, lips frozen in place against his own, but then he melts into it, pressing back insistently. Keith takes a step forward, covering the rest of the distance between them to wrap an arm around Lance’s waist, a pleasant shiver running up his spine when Lance follows his lead. He trails a hand up Keith’s wrist to his arm, his shoulder, his neck, eventually settling his palm lightly against Keith’s cheek. Keith can’t help but lean into that touch, kissing Lance deeper, running his tongue along Lance’s bottom lip.

Which is exactly when Lance pulls away, holding Keith at arms length.

He’s panting, eyes wild with lingering surprise and something else, something that makes a nervous seed take root at the pit of Keith’s stomach. “What’s wrong?” Keith licks his lips, a bit out of breath himself. Lance doesn’t answer at first, though the way he lets go of Keith’s shoulders and takes a step back might be answer enough.

“This wasn’t… You weren’t…” He breathes, and it sounds a bit like he’s just run a marathon. For a split second, Keith worries he might be hyperventilating. “No, no, no. This is so messed up. This is so messed up!” Lance scrubs his hands over his face, knocking his snapback off and to the dusty floor of the path.

“What is?” Keith demands, heart pounding. “What did I do? I thought you-”

“You weren’t supposed to like me back!” Lance cuts him off with a yell. “I was supposed to play music with you and remind you of how much you love it and secretly like you from afar but you were never supposed to… You weren’t supposed to like me back! That just- That’s not fair, man!”

Watching Lance grip ruthlessly at his hair, his words practically tangible in the air between them, Keith’s pretty sure he’s never understood the concept of Mixed Signals better.

“I don’t… I’m confused,” Keith frowns, taking a step towards Lance, who matches him with another step back. “You’re saying you like me.” Lance shakes his head vigorously, a look of panic in his eyes and his hands still buried in his own hair. “So you don’t like me.”

“No! I do! That’s the problem! Part of the problem… Ugh!”

“Why?” Keith yells back. “Why is it a problem? _I_ kissed _you_! I’m pretty sure that’s proof I like you too.” Saying it out loud makes his heart stutter again, stomach flipping. He likes Lance. He doesn’t know when it happened, but he does, more than he could have ever expected. And knowing Lance likes him back? He should be thrilled. Except, Lance still looks like he’s about ready to jump into the lake. “You don’t want me to like you?”

“No, I-” Lance groans, finally dropping his hands back to his sides, suddenly looking very small. “I do. I really do. But I… I wasn’t supposed to know. I can’t- I can’t have this. I want it too much and- It’ll be too hard. You don’t- You shouldn’t like me back. It’ll be better for us both if you don’t.”

“You know that’s stupid, right?” Keith throws back at him and Lance flinches. “Who gave you the right to decide who I should or shouldn’t like anyway? What does that even mean, better if I don’t?”

“You don’t get it,” Lance shakes his head, and when he smiles, the look is wobbly and forced. “This ruins everything.”

This time, Keith takes a step back, hurt settling cold and heavy deep in his gut. A hurt that quickly evolves into rage. “You’re right,” he says through his teeth. “I _don’t_ get it. And you’re doing a damn good job at not explaining it. I told you about my parents, Lance. My _parents_. I haven’t talked to anyone but Shiro about them since- God. Fuck you, dude.”

“Keith…” Lance whispers, but he doesn’t make to recover the distance between them. And he doesn’t apologize. So Keith turns on his heel and starts walking back the way they came. “Keith, wait!”

“No,” Keith whirls back around just long enough to point a finger in Lance’s direction, keeping him from following. “If me liking you back ruins everything somehow, than fine. It never happened. The kiss, the story, our performance at Voltron, none of it.” And then, for good measure, Keith lets his hand drop, looking at Lance with every ounce of cold, expressionlessness he can muster. “This is what you wanted, right? This is supposed to be better for us both somehow? Well then. Thanks for saving me the trouble.”

He tries not to notice the look of pain that flashes across Lance’s face before Keith turns to leave. He also tries not to be upset when Lance ultimately doesn’t follow. 

He fails spectacularly at both.

.x.X.x.

A text pops up from Lance when Keith eventually makes it back to his dorm.

 **im sorry** , it says. Nothing more. He thinks he might have preferred if Lance had sent nothing at all.

Keith doesn’t reply.

.x.X.x.

“It just doesn’t make any sense,” Keith huffs, stirring an extra spoonful of sugar into his coffee with enough force to spill a bit over the side. He wipes it up with Shiro’s napkin and goes back to stirring. “Lance is such an asshole.”

“Because he turned you down?” Shiro asks, voice neutral. It hadn’t been difficult for Shiro to notice something was off, and it took barely any time at all for Keith to start ranting. He kept out some of the finer details, like the kiss or the way he’d felt playing alongside him at Voltron, but Shiro’s knowing expression told him he didn’t need to.

“He didn’t though?” Keith groans, letting his head fall to the table in frustration. “He basically shouted at me that he liked me too. He just followed it up by saying that _me_ liking _him_ ruins everything somehow. I don’t get it.”

“Did you try talking to him? Figure out what he meant?”

Even though he still has his cheek pressed against the wood of the café table, he’s sure Shiro can see his face heat up. “Not… Really. I mean, I tried to at first, but he just started freaking out and I got mad and I left.”

“And you haven’t talked to him since.” The fact that it’s not a question makes Keith want to argue, but he knows he can’t. Outside of that one text, Lance hasn’t contacted him at all, and Keith hasn’t tried to contact him either.

“I just don’t know what else I can say.”

“Maybe you can start by asking him why he freaked out? You said he thinks everything’s ruined. Maybe find out what he was trying to prevent from being ruined in the first place.”

After a bit more convincing, Keith decides to take Shiro’s advice to heart, promising that he’ll talk to Lance first thing during Theory 301 on Monday. Even though the idea of it alone is enough to make his stomach drop and his heart start beating erratically. And it doesn’t help that, whenever his mind wanders, it’s to how soft Lance’s lips were or how that sound he’d made at the back of his throat had basically turned his legs to jelly. He’d gotten a literal and metaphorical taste, only to have Lance rip it all away with no explanation.

And what hurts worse, is the muted hue that conversation has put over all the wonderful moments leading up to it. Keith’s stuck in a sort of limbo, balancing between wanting to play the piano again and wanting to go back to how things were, wanting to yell at Lance and wanting to kiss him senseless, wanting to text him and wanting to ignore him completely.

Forcing an answer out of him, even if it’s not to change his mind, even if it’s just enough to put an end to the confusion, seems like the most reasonable plan.

But Lance isn’t in class on Monday. 

Keith thinks briefly about texting him, possibly to wake him up. He even has the words, _Your beauty sleep kept you from another pop quiz. Keith: 3 Lance: 2_ , typed out in full before he clears the screen and throws his phone back in his bag. He’ll just talk to him tomorrow instead.

Or he would have if Lance hadn’t decided to skip class on Tuesday too.

This time, he does text him. He writes a total of five different messages, erasing each one, before finally deciding on, _Avoiding me at the expense of your grade is pretty dumb, even for you._

When Lance doesn’t respond for the remainder of class, and then the rest of the day after that, Keith starts to get worried.

 _You’re being ridiculous_ , he sends next, to another lack of response.

 _Fine, ignore me all you want_ , he sends after that. Still nothing.

It’s at two am the next day when he finally sends the words, _You’re okay right?_

No response.

.x.X.x.

It’s surprisingly easy for Keith to track down Lance’s friends. The music department isn’t very large, and based off of what the DJ at Voltron had said, Keith assumes they’re both strings players. He checks the schedule for the string ensemble and waits outside, secretly hoping that Lance will come out first so he can pull him aside and yell at him.

Lance doesn’t come out at all and his friends are the last to leave the studio, Pidge with a cello case in hand, Hunk with a smaller case. He vaguely remembers Lance mentioning a viola.

Pidge notices him first, taking a second to look him up and down in distaste before smirking up at him. “Lance isn’t here.”

“I gathered,” Keith frowns at her, switching his attention to Hunk; he gets the distinct impression Pidge doesn’t like him all that much. “I just wanted to make sure he was okay.”

“Surprising,” Pidge scoffs at him anyway. “Considering you left him at Helm’s Park like a kicked puppy last week.”

“He basically told me to fuck off!” Keith shoots back at her with a glare, but her smirk holds strong.

“In so many words, I’m sure.”

“Look,” Keith forces himself to focus on Hunk, who’s watching their exchange in uncomfortable silence. “Just tell him I’ve been trying to get in touch with him, okay? He hasn’t been answering my texts, so-”

“Why not go tell him yourself?” Hunk offers. “Visiting hours are till nine.”

Everything gets weirdly quiet, like Keith has suddenly gone deaf. When he speaks next, he hardly hears it beneath the ringing in his ears. “Visiting hours?”

Pidge and Hunk exchange a look before Hunk looks back at him with an expression that would be best described as pity. “At the hospital.”

Keith’s blood runs cold, a tremor of involuntary panic racing down his spine. “The hospital? What the hell is Lance doing in the hospital?”

That panic must inch its way into his voice, because Pidge’s eyes widen, her smirk faltering. Hunk is the first to respond though.

“Dude, calm down. He’s in an out of the hospital all the time now. This isn’t exactly new to him.”

Which doesn’t make sense. All the time? Not a new thing? “What for?”

Another glance between Hunk and Pidge, and then Hunk answers again, tone soft but confused. “His… Heart condition? Didn’t he tell you about it?”

Which makes even _less_ sense. It’s impossible. Someone like Lance? All fiery energy and the embodiment of light and warmth and-

And suddenly their conversation makes a lot more sense.

“How bad is it?” Keith asks, because the way Lance had reacted… “Is it bad? Is he going to be okay?”

Hunk goes to answer again, but Pidge holds a hand out in front of him, bringing him up short. “Look, Keith,” she says. “We thought you knew. If Lance hasn’t told you any of this yet, then you’re going to have to bring it up with him. You wanted to talk to him anyway, right? Might wanna start off with this.”

The look in her eyes is stern, serious; for as young as she looks, there’s a maturity there too. A genuineness he never noticed before. Before he registers what he’s doing, he nods, pulling out his phone to plug the hospital they mention into his GPS. He barely offers them a goodbye before heading towards the exit.

“Hey, Keith!” Pidge calls at his back. He pauses just long enough to glance over his shoulder in response. She’s smirking at him again, this time the look in her eyes more friendly, but no less snarky. “Don’t be too hard on him, alright?”

Keith nods again and then books it. The GPS says the hospital is only twenty minutes away by bus. And the entire ride there, all he can think about is their last argument, Lance’s words shouted with a different edge now that Keith knows where they come from. What he keeps circling back to, however, is the why. And with as panicked and frustrated as Lance had appeared, that hypothetical Why only grows more and more negative the longer his mind tries to pick it apart. 

Because, why else would Lance have been so upset? 

As Keith stands in front of the entrance to the hospital, heart already drumming out a vicious rhythm behind his rib cage, Keith thinks he might have figured it out. Maybe not all the details of the Why, but maybe the core of it, the reason Lance had been so vehemently against accepting Keith’s affection.

He’d be pretty upset too if he didn’t think he’d be around long enough to enjoy it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MORE VIDS. I couldn't for the life of me find a perfect video to describe what I was thinking of for their performance at Voltron. So imagine if these two videos had a baby:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bf2Hr5riaLA - (Jump ahead to 1:06 if you please!)  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HHz8bIW9nG8
> 
> And lastly, in case you haven't heard the breathtaking composition that is Chopin's Ballade, I give you one of the most challenging Chopin pieces to play, also known as the piece Keith worked so hard on only to have his whole life go to shit:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ce8p0VcTbuA
> 
> Keep that one bookmarked, kiddies. Trust me.


	5. Fifth Movement: Comodo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **_Comodo:_** literally “comfortable” or “easy”. Usually referring to tempo, it indicates that the tempo should produce the effect of the music sounding comfortable or easy (not rushed or hurried).

Lance is being kept in the Cardiology Wing, room 407. Just in case, Keith lies and says he’s family, and in exchange, the nurse easily spills the information that Lance has been there for almost a week this time.

The use of the words “this time” is enough to get Keith’s heart speeding up again, and he has to stop himself from drilling her for more information. Pidge was right. If he wants to find out, he should find out from Lance. Even though it stings to think that Lance withheld something this important from him to begin with.

Why though? Why keep this from him at all? Worry? Embarrassment? No excuse seems good enough, reasonable or strong enough in comparison to the one possibility Keith fears the most.

Maybe Lance just didn’t trust him. Over the coarse of this month, with Lance’s jury and Quiz Competitions in Theory and that earth shattering performance at Voltron, Keith had thought they’d gotten close. He never would have kissed Lance otherwise. But maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe he’d read the whole situation poorly.

Either way, he was about to find out.

Except… He just couldn’t seem to bring himself to open the door.

What if Lance didn’t want to see him? They don’t take your cell phone away at the hospital, he doesn’t think. Which would mean Lance was intentionally ignoring him on top of everything else. What if they start arguing the minute they see each other and he gives Lance a heart attack? What if he-?

The door in front of him swings open abruptly, a nurse with a vitals cart nearly colliding into him on her way out. Keith steps to the side with a start, letting her pass.

“Keith?” Lance’s voice echoes from inside the room, and Keith jumps again, sheepishly inching his way back into the doorway. Well, decision made then.

“Um… Hey,” Keith mumbles eloquently as he walks inside and closes the door behind him. Lance watches him from the hospital bed with a look of surprised confusion. He’s sitting up currently, which seems promising, and he has the television on mute, some cartoon playing above his head on the wall across from him.

It’s a private room, which is surprising, and there are definite signs of a lengthy stay. Flowers on the windowsill, a laptop and Gameboy on the dresser, a stack of text books on the chair next to his bed. Maybe he should have brought his notes with him from class this week.

Lance is still watching him, Keith realizes when he finally drags his attention back to the hospital bed. He looks the same, not pale or sickly or near dying like he had been in Keith’s head. In fact, he looks perfectly healthy, brown hair a bit of a mess and eyes a little tired, but otherwise fine.

“What are you doing here?” Lance eventually asks when it turns out Keith is completely inept at starting a conversation. And even worse at following one.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Keith asks in lieu of answering, taking a step towards Lance’s bed with a frown. Now that he sees Lance in person, sees that he’s not exactly dying, that anger from before begins to resurface. Lance’s eyes widen a bit as he gets closer.

“Excuse me?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were…?” Keith can’t seem to finish that sentence, balling his hands into fists at his sides instead. With their eyes locked as they are, Keith sees the exact moment Lance’s face shifts, his expression turning frigid.

“Were what?” He spits out. “And if you say “dying,” dude, I swear to God.”

“Well are you?” The words are out before he can stop them, Keith’s stomach dropping. 

Lance’s frown persists, but maybe he sees something in Keith’s face, maybe he hears something in the underlying panic Keith is having a hard time holding in, because the coldness of his expression melts a bit. 

Keith looks away, gritting his teeth. “Are you dying…? Is that why you freaked out on me? Because of… Because you’re-”

“Relax, dude,” Lance sighs, a hint of amusement there that makes Keith want to punch him. If he weren’t hooked up to an IV he might have. “I’m not… I’m not dying just yet, okay?” At that, Keith forces himself to look back at him, at how Lance is currently in a hospital gown with hospital sheets shoved around his waist, a number of tubes connected to his arm while some sort of wire links his heart to a monitor next to his bed. Is it any wonder why Keith might be doubtful? Especially when Lance follows himself up by being very… Lance about it.

“Well, I mean, everyone’s dying, like, really slowly, since birth and stuff, but I’m not there yet or anything, so just. Chill, alright?”

Keith tries to, he really does, but he’s straddling the line between being angry at Lance for lying and freaking out and possibly dying, and being worried that Lance lied and freaked out because he’s possibly dying. He wants to punch Lance across the face for being such an idiot, but he also wants to kiss that stupid face for being an _alive_ idiot, even if he doesn’t really understand the situation. And that’s just confusing. Because they haven’t hashed anything out yet, but Keith’s heart still flutters when he thinks about playing with him again and touching him and possibly more kissing, and if that’s going to be taken away from him too just like everything else-

“Keith. Buddy.” Lance’s voice is soft and comforting, settling into Keith’s tense muscles, relaxing his grip and his shoulders and the clench of his jaw. When Keith returns his attention to Lance from where it had fallen to the hospital floor, it’s to the sight of a fond, still slightly amused half smile. “I’m okay.”

“Then why are you here?” Keith chokes out, instantly hating how rough his voice is, how obvious his worry bleeds through. Does he even have the right to worry this much? For all intents and purposes, he’s only really known lance for a little over a month. How is it possible to feel this strongly about someone’s wellbeing in such a short amount of time?

Lance leans back in his bed a bit, hitting a button on the remote attached to his bed. The TV flickers off, but Lance continues to stare at the blank screen, absentmindedly toying with the tape on his hand where the IV’s needle connect to his vein.

“I have a, um. A sort of heart condition?”

“Jesus, Lance,” Keith groans, running a shaking hand over his face. In response, Lance makes a noise that sounds somewhere between surprised and offended.

“Oh come on! It’s not like I planned this or something!”

“I know that!” Keith shouts back. Then softer, his energy slowly draining as the reality of what they’re talking about begins to sink in. “I know that.”

The next stretch of silence is damn near painful, neither of them knowing what to say or where to look. The soft whir and beep of Lance’s heart monitor seems unusually loud, and Keith swears he can feel his own heart playing against it in double time. 

So many things make more sense now.

“Look, man,” Lance eventually sighs, staring pointedly out the window and away from Keith. His hands grip just shy of too tight at the sheets pooled around his lap. “I’m sorry I freaked out on you. I just didn’t- I had it all planned out, you know? And I honestly never thought that you’d- Well. I figured I’d be… Shit.” He stops there, a hand rising to rest for a moment over his eyes, and Keith’s heart clenches. But when Lance lets that hand fall, looks back at him, all smiles, his heart clenches for an entirely different reason. “I was supposed to woo you for a little longer, that’s all. The plan was to make you fall in love with me eventually, after all this had blown over, but I guess I worked a bit too quickly, huh?”

Even though his face heats and his stomach flips at the words, Keith still forces out an eye roll, crossing his arms over his chest dismissively. “Are you that incapable of being serious?”

“Oh, I’m dead serious. My charm was too much for us both.”

“Lance, I swear to God.”

“If only I’d waited a bit longer. Then you wouldn’t have seen your prince charming turn into a pumpkin.”

“First, it’s the carriage that turns into a pumpkin, not the prince. And if anything, you’re more like one of Cinderella’s annoying mice.”

“So he _does_ get pop culture references! Also, rude much?”

“And second,” Keith keeps on, resilient, letting the seriousness of the topic settle into his voice, even if Lance refuses to hear it. “You’re in a hospital bed, McClain. Can you stop bullshitting for two seconds?”

“Nope,” Lance practically beams, and Keith simultaneously wants to punch him and kiss him again and it sucks. A lot.

Perhaps Lance notices the way his lips tighten in a grimace, glancing away from Lance’s smiling face, but when Lance speaks next, his words are soft.

“I’m sorry for lying to you.”

Keith clicks his tongue, spitting out a trite, “You didn’t lie. You just didn’t tell me.” _Which hurts infinitely worse_ , he doesn’t say. But both of them can hear it.

“I wanted you to kiss me,” Lance says next, the change in topic unexpected enough to force Keith’s attention back to Lance’s bed.

“What?”

“At the park,” Lance explains, and despite the sincerity of his tone, the corner of his mouth is trying desperately not to tug itself into a smirk. “I really wanted you to kiss me.”

Keith feels himself lick his lips like an out of body experience, completely beyond his control. “I never would have guessed,” he forces out after, even though his voice isn’t nearly as chiding as he wants it to be. Lance, however, is completely unfazed, and his next words leave Keith’s face nearly burning.

“I wanted you to kiss me for a while, actually. After my jury, after that one theory class where I kicked your ass on the test. Fuck, man. I want you to kiss me right now.”

Keith opens his mouth to say, _Yes. Sure. Okay. Whenever you want._ But Lance keeps going, that half-smirk from before disappearing entirely. 

“But,” he sighs, frowning, and Keith hates the way it wrinkles his brow, pulls his lips in the wrong direction. Lance should be smiling always, always. “But I didn’t want to drag you into all this. Just in case.”

There are a lot of things Keith suddenly wants to say to that. _Drag him into it? Just in case what? Who gave him the right?_ But what eventually comes out of his mouth is simply, “Selfish asshole.”

Lance’s head snaps up, his eyes blinking owlishly. “Selfish… What the fuck?”

“That’s you,” Keith repeats, digging his words deep and hard. “Lance McClain, the Selfish Asshole.” Lance’s mouth falls open in shock with the beginnings of insult, but Keith barrels over him, staring down his nose at the stupid, stupid face he may or may not be crushing really, really hard on.

“If I want to be “dragged into all this” that’s my decision, not yours.”

Lance blinks at him again, his mouth clicking shut for a moment before he whispers in reply, “You don’t even know what you’d be getting yourself into though…”

“You’re right. I don’t,” Keith huffs. “Because you won’t talk to me about it.”

“Keith, I-” Lance starts to say, and for a second, Keith thinks he might finally get the explanation he’s been waiting for. But before he gets the chance to go any further, the door to Lance’s room creaks open, a pair of doctors and a nurse coming in to interrupt. Keith has to stop himself from outwardly cursing at their terrible timing.

“Lance, my boy!” The doctor smiles happily, walking past Keith and over to Lance like Keith isn’t even there. “How are we feeling today?”

“Um,” Lance glances from Keith to the doctor and back, looking uneasy. “Good?”

“That’s good to hear,” the doctor goes on, pulling Lance’s chart from the foot of his bed and giving it a long once over. “Everything’s looking in order. Best case, we get you discharged in a few hours. Sound like a plan?”

“Y-Yeah,” Lance smiles, but it lacks its normal confidence. From behind the doctor, Keith shoots a questioning look in his direction, which Lance vehemently ignores. “Thanks, doc.”

“And in regards to your surgery-” The doctor starts to say, and Lance visibly pales, a hand shooting up to wave away the topic before it’s too late.

“We don’t need to-!”

The doctor goes on as if Lance hasn’t spoken. Or rather shouted. Loudly enough to make Keith and the other two medical professionals jump. “You’re still on the waiting list, but you’ve moved up quite a bit in the last month. If I had to speculate, I’d say there’s the likelihood of an availability within the next few months. Possibly even before the end of the school year.” He looks up, and in so doing, finally seems to notice the nauseous look on Lance’s face. “Lance? You alright, son?”

Again, as if it’s completely involuntary, Lance looks over at Keith and then back, nodding tightly. “Yup. Peachy keen, doc. Th-Thanks for the info. I’m looking… forward to it.” He seems to deflate a bit at that, but the doctor just replaces his chart and pats Lance on the shoulder.

“I’ll see what I can do about getting you out of here sooner rather than later, alright?”

Lance doesn’t seem to have the will to verbally respond, nodding a few times before looking back towards the window. The doctor takes that as his cue, and entourage in tow, he makes for the door. Though, not without sparing his first glance at Keith, a glance that is equal parts cordial and sad. Keith bristles, shooting the doctor a glare that he either doesn’t notice or chooses not to acknowledge. Two seconds later, and Lance and Keith are alone again.

“So,” Keith sniffs, still glaring at the door. “Surgery, huh?”

When Lance chuckles at that, it’s tight and forced, almost painful sounding. “You wanted the dirty details, right? Guess we’re starting there.”

Something in Keith’s heart breaks a bit at the tone of his voice, a stubbornness he hadn’t realized he’d been building up, slowly but surely crumbling beneath him. When he looks back at Lance with a sigh, there’s an air of defeat about it. Defeat and something kinder. Something like trust.

“No,” he says, and Lance glances up at him from where he’d been staring forlornly at his own lap. “You’ve… You’ve done enough. For today, at least.” And then, an awkward glance at the door, a scratch at the back of his neck. “I should probably let you rest.”

“Okay,” Lance mumbles, sounding so very, very small. And maybe it’s that that does it. Or maybe it’s just Lance in general, but Keith chooses not to stop himself from walking over to the side of Lance’s bed, gently placing a hand against Lance’s cheek, and leaning in. 

The kiss is soft and chaste, but Keith hopes it conveys as much promise and determination as he feels. Lance’s lips are a little chapped but they give beneath his easily, and when Lance melts into it, he exhales a soft puff of warm air against Keith’s face and it feels perfect. Absolutely perfect. 

When Keith pulls away, letting his hand drop back to his side, it’s to the image of Lance’s parted lips and wide eyes and the dusting of pink along his cheeks and ears. Also perfect, Keith decides. 

Lance’s hand snakes out of the fabric of his sheets, reaching up to wrap around Keith’s arm as if to keep him in place, keep him from leaving. The touch is light but intimate, and Keith’s heart stutters at the contact.

“I’ll tell you everything after Theory on Monday, okay?” He says, like a promise. And this time, Keith finds himself without words, simply nodding in agreement.

The contact breaks, Keith takes a step away, and everything feels simultaneously lighter and heavier.

“So hey,” Lance catches him before he’s to the door.

Keith turns around with a soft, “Hm?”

The look in Lance’s eyes is back to that smug, devious expression Keith has grown accustomed to. And fond of. But that doesn’t diminish the sense of dread that washes over him at the sight of it.

“They don’t normally talk shop when someone’s in the room.” All of Keith’s blood rushes to his face and Lance’s grin widens. “What did you tell them exactly?”

“Nothing unusual,” Keith snaps. And then, in a rather telling mumble, “I just said we were family.”

“Uh huh.” Lance snickers. “Because we look so similar?”

“Sh-Shut up.”

“Or were you going for boyfriend? Maybe even husband?” Lance practically sing-songs and Keith swears his face could fry an egg.

“O-Of course not!”

Lance stares at him for a moment, still grinning, eyes trailing over Keith in an elaborate once over. “Oh,” he says at last, and that tone goes right to Keith’s core. “Too bad.”

“I’m going!” Keith blurts, turning towards the door before he can embarrass himself any further. Lance just laughs, calling out to him before the door shuts between them.

“I’ll see you on Monday, darling!”

.x.X.x.

As should have been expected, Lance’s explanation that Monday is wrought with puns and bullshit.

(“So in walks nine year old Lance with a broken heart and a newfound disposition for pretty medical prof-”

“Oh my god, please stop.”)

But regardless, Lance is true to his word, and it doesn’t take long for Keith to become up to date on Lance’s illness.

Diagnosed with an incurable heart disease at nine, in and out of the hospital all through his middle and high school careers, and then set to have a heart transplant before the end of the school year. From what Keith gathers, it’s causing substantial nerve damage due to lack of proper blood flow, which begs the concern Keith can’t seem to help himself from voicing.

“So… What about your violin?”

“Oh, um,” Lance says around a mouthful of his sandwich. Hunk and Pidge look across the table at Keith as if he’s just sprouted a second head. But what? Like he wasn’t allowed to ask? Lance swallows his bite before continuing. “If the surgery goes well, I should be able to play again after physical therapy and stuff. Maybe.”

“Maybe?” Keith frowns before he can stop himself, and for a second, it looks like Pidge is going to crawl over the table and forcibly silence him. He pulls away from her out of reflex, even though Hunk does most of the restraining.

“Yeah,” Lance says, with a shrug that’s somehow both dismissive and defensive. “Maybe.”

It sounds like Lance is hiding something from him again, but it feels more out of uncertainty than any misplaced sense of protection like before, so Keith lets it drop. He doesn’t often lead the conversation, but this time, he turns towards Pidge and Hunk and forces himself to ask, “So you guys met in string ensemble?”

Pidge narrows her eyes at him for a moment before taking the bait, though not without glancing in Lance’s direction briefly first. “Kinda,” she says when she shifts her attention back to Keith. “We all went to the same magnet school not far from here. We played in the string ensemble together there.”

“And you picked cello.”

“My brother played cello before he went to medical school. It’s got the nicest sound and the broadest range.”

“Huh,” Keith blinks, her answer unexpected. Before he can stop himself, he hears himself add, “I’m just surprised. I’d have thought you’d pick something more portable, you know? Considering that you’re...”

Hunk nearly spits out his soda and Lance inhales another bite of sandwich, choking. Pidge just stares at him, face deadpan.

“That I’m...?” She parrots, and the coldness in her eyes causes a chill to run down Keith’s spine. He clears his throat and shrugs.

“So, um… Short?”

“Oh my god,” Lance practically wheezes, still choking and borderline cackling. Hunk is looking from Pidge to Keith and back like he’s waiting for Pidge to jump across the table and strangle him, but he’s also holding back laughter of his own.

Thankfully, Pidge concedes, crossing her arms over her chest. “You’re not wrong. The bigger the instrument, the worse it hurts when someone makes fun of your height and you hit them with it.”

Keith can’t tell if she’s joking or not, so he just nods and pokes at his pasta with his fork, pointedly not looking at her. “Fair enough.”

Lance loses it.

.x.X.x.

“Okay, okay,” Lance says before he’s even fully walked into Theory the next day, throwing his bag down next to Keith’s table and taking up the empty seat to his side. “I know you were pretty gung ho about not doing the piano competition.”

“Lance,” Keith says in his most warning tone, but they must be spending too much time together recently, because Lance is decidedly unfazed.

“Now, this is just a thought… But what if we did it together?”

And that… Doesn’t sound all that bad, really. It’s probably a bit of a crutch, but Keith can’t exactly deny how much easier it is for him to play when Lance is around. Somehow he’s managed to become both a comfort and a pleasant distraction. 

But still.

“It’s only a month and a half away,” Keith rolls his eyes, staring pointedly at the board and away from Lance’s determined expression. He’s far too kissable when he looks like that, and they haven’t exactly defined what they are to each other yet. So best to avoid temptation where he can. “That’s barely enough time to prepare.”

“Like you need to do more than open up the sheet music,” Lance scoffs. “And I’m always on point. I could probably read through the song a couple of times and perform it perfectly. Especially with you to back me up.”

Keith vehemently ignores the compliment, tapping his pencil on the table a few times as he says, “You’re talking about this like you already have a song picked out.”

“Oh, but I do!” Lance declares, and even in his periphery, Keith can see him raising a finger in enthusiastic proclamation. Shocker.

“And what, pray tell,” Keith throws back in perfect, uninterested contrast. “Is the song of choice for this competition I have yet to agree to?”

After a few seconds of rummaging, Lance produces a song book from his bag, flipping it open to a doggy-eared page. Keith’s eyes zero in on the title instantly, though all he would have needed was the first few notes of the first measure to recognize it.

_Ballade No. 1 in G Minor, Op. 23, it says. Music by Frédérick Chopin (Arranged for piano and violin)._

“No,” Keith chokes out, his voice weak.

“Come on, buddy!” Lance pushes the book in Keith’s direction, to which Keith responds by closing it and pushing it right back. “You’ve probably still got this thing memorized. And it’ll be good for you to-”

“I’m never playing that piece again, Lance,” Keith shakes his head, looking back at the board once more, even though his mind is racing in a million different directions now, none of which towards Theory. “So drop it.”

“Keith,” Lance keeps prying, of course he does. “It’ll be different this time though, won’t it?” And despite it all, the sound of Lance’s voice, the soft plea behind it, the warm tone, causes Keith to glance back in his direction. “I’ll be playing with you.”

And there’s that realization again, of just how much music has changed for him since Lance fell into his life.

“I’ll think about it,” Keith glares, grabbing the sheet music and shoving it in his bag before he can change his mind. Not that he needs it, really. Lance wasn’t wrong; he could still probably play the first four or so pages by heart.

All through class, every time Keith glances over in his direction, Lance is either looking back at him or far too smugly at the board. But Keith can’t find it in himself to argue about it.

.x.X.x.

He’s not sure exactly when it happens, but Keith has managed to somehow become thoroughly incorporated into Lance’s life. Which means things like working out with Hunk (because they both have an hour to kill before their next classes) or Pidge showing up at his dorm to help him fix his computer (because Lance told her Keith was technologically incompetent). It means things like all three of them dragging Keith to the movies when they find out he’s never seen a Marvel movie (“That theater around the corner has recline-able chairs, man!”) or Lance coming with him to one of his meet-ups with Shiro (“I’m not going to have to give you the You Hurt Him I Hurt You speech, am I?” “N-No, sir! Of course not, sir!” “Shiro, oh my god, please don’t do this.”).

It means thinking about Lance when they’re not together and looking at him too much when they are. It means worrying when Lance has a doctor’s appointment and pretending he wasn’t that worried when Lance teases him for it later. It means lingering in the music hall after his Music Tech class one day, the sound of the string ensemble tuning practically dragging him into the audience to take a seat.

It’s not unusual for students to stick around and listen in on their peers’ practices. Sometimes it’s during master classes, sometimes it’s for the campus newspaper or a project or even just to support their friends. Keith’s never thought much of it beyond a waste of time. Yet here he is, settling into the middle back row, no reason to be there other than to what? Find out ahead of time what they’ll be playing at the mid-year concert? Experience the difference between an orchestra rehearsal and strings-specific rehearsal?

Keith’s eyes zero in on Lance after a moment, on how he laughs at the joke from the second violinist with the long blond hair. All Lance is wearing is a pair of dark jeans and a graphic tee, but Keith can’t deny how good he looks. Maybe it’s the way he can’t seem to sit still, laughing with the other first violinist now and smiling in that goofy way Keith loves and Keith hasn’t seen him all day, he realizes, not that he missed him or anything but- oh. That’s why.

Keith settles a bit lower in the chair, contemplating sneaking out before he’s noticed, but something catches his attention.

Lance is one of the first violins but surprisingly not first chair. That position belongs to a boy with short, spiky black hair and a violin stained deep red. But what’s even more surprising is how Lance jokes with him too, seemingly perfectly content with his lower rank in the ensemble. It seems strange, especially considering, what with Lance’s skill, there’s no reason Lance couldn’t compete with him for the top spot and steal it right out from underneath him.

Keith doesn’t think on it for much longer, however, distracted at once by the beginning of the rehearsal. Pidge has a solo in the first piece, and she plays both fluidly and with an impressive level of precision. It’s as if each note was preprogrammed into her cello ahead of time; if it weren’t for the elegant vibrato on elongated notes, Keith would have thought the solo was being played by a musically gifted robot. 

Everyone backs Pidge up beautifully and the song comes to an end. The same goes for the next couple of pieces, Hunk playing in a trio for one while other students take turns on their own solos. Eventually, Lance stands up for what Keith assumes is going to be his own solo and his heart practically leaps out of his chest. He’s seen Lance play, played _with him_ , for god’s sake. There’s no reason for him to still get so excited over it. Yet, here he is, literally scooching forward a bit in his seat as the rest of the ensemble leads Lance in. And it’s as beautiful as Keith expects it to be. 

Until it isn’t.

Something happens. Keith doesn’t know what, or even how he can tell, but something doesn’t sit right, something feels off for a second, and whatever that _something_ is, it translates to a very shaky, very awkward few measures before Lance is asked to come to a stop.

He apologizes, grinning, and they start again.

He doesn’t even make it that far this time before that something happens again. Despite the rising sense of confusion and concern, despite feeling very much taken aback, Keith tries to look at Lance objectively, tries to see if he can pinpoint what he’s doing wrong.

As it turns out, his notes are actually accurate. They’d even be beautifully played… if only he were playing them in tempo. But it’s almost as if he can’t quite keep up.

Keith’s eyes widen a bit as he watches Lance struggle for a moment longer before ultimately stopping, the conductor looking at him with a frown.

“Sorry, sorry!” Lance laughs nervously, scratching at the back of his neck with the tip of his bow. Hunk reaches over with his own bow to poke rather insistently at Lance’s leg, and when Lance looks back, he’s met with a stern look and a shake of Hunk’s head. Lance clears his throat and tries again. “Sorry about that. I just, um-”

He chooses this moment to look into the audience, noticing seemingly for the first time, Keith’s presence. A series of emotions flash across his face, too quickly for Keith to catch them all, but then, a smug grin tugs at the corner of his mouth, his eyes glinting with something akin to deviousness.

“I just got nervous,” Lance says, and Keith’s heart stops at the way Lance’s gaze becomes damn near _suggestive_. “You see, my boyfriend is in the audience and it’s hard to concentrate when that sexy face of his is making heart eyes at me during my barriolage.”

A rush of giggles and groans and general murmurs rush over the ensemble, every single one of them, even the conductor, looking out into the audience near simultaneously. If there was a way for a human to become one with a chair, Keith was trying desperately to discover it. 

Even as he sinks as low as possible into the worn fabric of the auditorium seat, it’s impossible to not notice the way Pidge and Hunk shake their heads in what seems to be pity, or the way Lance waggles his eyebrows at him, the bastard. But it’s the way the conductor sighs, pinching at the bridge of his nose, that’s the most mortifying. Especially considering what follows.

“I’m happy for you, Lance. You and…” He pauses, waiting for Lance to give him the name of his so-called “boyfriend,” and honestly, they haven’t even _talked_ about that yet, so what right does he have to-

“Keith,” Lance offers a bit too willingly. Not so much like he’s proud, but like he knows exactly how torturous this must be. If it were at all possible, Keith would choose this moment to sink down past the chair entirely and through the floor itself.

“Alright,” the string ensemble director shakes his head, turning towards Keith. “Congratulations on your relationship with Mr. McClain,” he says, and if Keith wasn’t dying already, that alone has just admitted him into the ICU. “But if you’re going to be that much of a distraction to my student, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. And probably forgo any future rehearsals.”

Be it years of conditioning with piano teachers and music instructors and all manner of musical authority, Keith shoots out of his seat without preamble. “Right. S-Sorry,” he chokes out, cursing himself for even sitting in on this rehearsal to begin with. He feels like he’s bordering on eighty shades of red, and every mocking tone of Lance’s ensemble mates seems to stab like a cattle prod at his pride.

Which means, now would be the perfect time for Lance to shout, above the still consistent murmur of the ensemble, “Sorry, darling!” Keith flinches, freezing where he stands in front of the auditorium doors, still trying to ignore the sounds of snickering and unintelligible mutterings. Spur of the moment, and maybe, just maybe this has something to do with Lance’s influence on him, Keith glances over his shoulder.

“We’re breaking up.”

Keith barely listens to the expected, “Aw, babe! Don’t be like that!” before storming out of the music hall.

If it weren’t for how flustered, how embarrassed and honestly _pissed off_ Keith was, he would have definitely noticed the way Lance’s hands had shook when he’d gestured with his bow in Keith’s direction. He would have definitely noticed the way Lance had been breathing just slightly more labored than normal, even though he’d been doing his best not to bring attention to it.

But instead, all Keith could focus on was the way his whole face felt hot. And that he was definitely going to punch Lance square in the jaw next time he saw him.

.x.X.x.

He doesn’t exactly punch him, per say. Not unless it’s with his mouth, and not to the jaw, but to _Lance’s_ mouth, like a punch to the face but with lips instead of fists. Okay, so they were kissing. But Lance definitely still deserves to be punched. Just later. Right now, Keith is busy.

They’re in Keith’s dorm this time, celebrating the lack of roommate by taking up the entire bed and being as noisy or as quiet as they like. Lance is splayed out beneath him, one hand tangled in Keith’s hair, the other slipping under Keith’s shirt to settle against his waist. Keith settles in too, letting their legs tangle a bit more, their chests press a bit closer. Unlike at the hospital, now Lance’s lips are soft and wet, and unlike at the park, they’re also pliable and desperate, opening willingly for him when Keith licks into his mouth with a groan.

His heart stutters when Lance whimpers against him in return, tongue delving deep in eager reciprocation. Vaguely, Keith feels Lance’s nails scratching lightly against his scalp, the fingers of his other hand digging into his waist and sending goosebumps along sensitive skin. He hasn’t wanted like this before, Keith thinks, like trying to pull and grasp and get closer, closer, absorb Lance into him so that he’ll never forget what being together like this feels like. So that even when Lance isn’t underneath him, against him, in his ears, on his tongue, he’ll still feel him, he’ll still be there.

When he starts getting dizzy, Keith breaks the kiss, reveling for a moment in the way their shared, panting breaths mingle in the centimeter of space between their bruised lips. Lance is watching him, face flushed, eyes heavy lidded and glazed, and Keith’s pretty sure he’s never seen anything more enticing. So, after taking a moment to suck Lance’s bottom lip into his mouth, just because he can, Keith dips down to place lips and teeth and tongue against Lance’s neck. It definitely elicits a reaction, Lance’s back arching a bit off the bed as he tilts his head away, exposing more tan skin for Keith to explore. 

Each sigh and whimper and involuntary noise Lance makes gets added to a collection Keith plans to keep, something he can go back to and relive with Lance over and over again. When Keith lets his teeth catch on his collarbone, Lance shivers. When he licks along Lance’s pulse point, he curses softly under his breath. When Keith licks back into his mouth, languid but hungry, Lance’s hand tightens in his hair and pulls him closer, practically growling into the kiss.

“Keith,” Lance breathes hotly against his lips once their kiss has lost some of that desperate edge, now soft and slow pecks interspersed with hums of contentment. And if Lance could just say his name like that for the rest of his life…

“Mmm?” Keith hums, still planting kisses against the corner of Lance’s mouth.

Lance sighs, letting his hands wander away from waist and hair to slide up Keith’s back, pushing his shirt along with it. His fingers trail in hot, swirling patterns along his skin, seemingly counting out the vertebrae in his spine. “I meant it, you know.”

“Meant what?” Keith asks, voice low, rougher even to his own ears. He takes Lance’s earlobe between his teeth and it takes Lance a moment to respond. When he does, it’s with a soft tremor to his voice, a shift in his body that ends up pulling Keith even closer, like he’s clinging.

“When I called you my boyfriend.”

Fresh humiliation rushes over him in an icy wave at the memory, and when he groans against Lance’s neck this time, it’s for far less pleasant reasons. “Please don’t remind me,” he huffs, and then mumbles more petulantly, “You’re ruining the mood.”

“I’m serious!” Lance chuckles, and Keith can feel every vibration of it as if it’s being magnified between their chests. It’s a pleasant feeling, like warmth given sound and body. “I want you to be my boyfriend.”

Even though a part of him was expecting it, or rather hoping maybe a little desperately for it, hearing Lance say it out loud sends a warm rush through him, the sound of it thrilling and a bit embarrassing and just generally wonderful. But Keith’s not much of a romantic, so he falls back on old habits, pressing his cheek against Lance’s shoulder so that he can’t see his face.

“That’s… A far cry from the whole, ‘You shouldn’t like me back,’ thing, though, isn’t it?” He says, stomach flip flopping at how unnecessary those words are, how opposite of what he really wants to say. Like, “I’ve been waiting for you to come to your senses,” or, “That’s what I want too.”

Luckily, aside from a brief pause and an awkward sounding chuckle, Lance takes Keith’s bumbling response with a grain of salt, holding Keith just that much tighter.

“Yeah, well,” Lance shuffles beneath him some, getting comfortable around Keith like he plans to stay for a while. Keith tries not to be too obvious about it when he does the same, resting his head on Lance’s chest and draping an arm across his waist. Lance hums in contentment, noticing anyway. And then, with a soft sight that Keith can’t quite define, he adds, “You only live once, right?”

For a second, Keith isn’t sure how to respond. “Took you long enough,” maybe, or perhaps a scathing comment about officially asking him out with an outdated meme. But there’s a certain resolve in Lance’s voice that sounds too serious, like those words mean something different to him than they do to everyone else. Like, when Lance says them, it’s because he understands it. You only live once, and you don’t know for how long. You only live once, so make it count. 

So Keith doesn’t say anything, simply feeling each inhale of Lance’s breaths beneath his cheek, listening to the soft ba-dum ba-dum of his heart beneath his ear. “I don’t know,” Keith says eventually, silently lamenting that they all only have one life, one short and unfair and fragile life. “I don’t think I can date someone who uses YOLO un-ironically.”

Because Keith isn’t a romantic. Because he doesn’t do these kinds of emotions well. And because he knows what Lance will say and that Lance will laugh and argue and they’ll pretend that Lance isn’t sick, that he isn’t probably still keeping secrets from him. They’ll pretend that they could live two, three, four, maybe even an eternity of lives, not just this one.

“You’re the one who just spent the last hour making out with a nationally recognized meme lord.”

“Sometimes we make sacrifices for the sake of sexual attraction.”

“Aw. You think I’m pretty?”

“Please stop.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, guys! No cliffhanger! Sorry for the last two... Hope this chapter helped ease some of that pain. 
> 
> Thank you, as always, to everyone who read, commented, bookmarked, kudos...ed, all of the things. You give me life. Which gives this fic life. Also, it might now end up being nine chapters, but I'm not gonna change it in the tags until I know for sure.
> 
> Crazy shit to come in the next few chapters, kiddies. Stay tuned!


	6. Sixth Movement: Rubato

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Rubato:**_ literally “stolen time”. It is a manner of playing in which the performer varies the tempo. It is a tool of expression most often employed in music of the “romantic era”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so disgustingly long to get this chapter up. I didn't want to post it until I'd at least finished writing chapter seven, but RL hit me fast and hard and I'm still not quite back to normal, my dudes. Unfortunately that meant suffering through some serious writer's block.
> 
> Anyway, though! I'm here and so is ch. 6 and if you haven't noticed, with the length and pacing I've been on, it looks like I'll be making this nine movements instead of eight. If that's any consolation.
> 
> Especially since this chapter is plot minimal and self indulgent... Hope you like it anyway! The last few chapters are heavy, so enjoy it while you can?
> 
> Still unbeta'd and still very much a gift to the beautiful kali_asleep for helping me overcome hurtles both fanfic and RL alike. I love you, darling.

Their rehearsals don’t exactly go well.

“Lance,” Keith sighs, rubbing at his eyes hard enough to see stars. “You’re the one who chose this arrangement. If the violin is primarily melody, you’re going to have to pull me, not the other way around.”

“I know that!” Lance huffs, scratching at the back of his neck with his bow. “I’m just having some trouble with your tempo, that’s all. Not all of us can jump right in at a solid 132.”

“Says the guy who claimed he’d be able to look at the sheet music once and be perfect.”

“Yeah, well, there’s perfect and then there’s freakish.”

That spawns a thirty second glaring contest that neither of them really win, both looking away in frustration before too long. Keith runs his fingers absentmindedly over the keys while Lance plucks at the strings of his violin without melody or rhythm, both of them determined to stare anywhere but at each other.

Finally, Keith is the first to cave. “This was a mistake,” he bites out, collecting the sheet music into a stack and putting it to the side, out of his line of sight. “There’s no way we’ll be able to pull this off by-”

“You’re not giving up are you?” Lance interrupts, a sort of panic in his voice that has Keith looking towards him in surprise. He looks downright pleading, eyes wide and mildly afraid, as if Keith calling a stop to this would have detrimental consequences somehow. It’s a little unnerving, but not enough for Keith to give in that easily.

“I don’t think we have enough time,” Keith tries, but Lance just crosses his arms over his chest, bow resting against his shoulder while his violin dangles from his other hand. He still looks a bit worried, but it’s overwhelmed by a sudden, put-upon expression.

“You don’t think I can do it.”

“Lance,” Keith sighs, pulling his hand away from the keys to latch on to the hem of his boyfriend’s shirt, yanking it and the attached boy closer. “I know you can do it.” He looks up, captures Lance’s gaze as he wraps an arm around his waist. “I just don’t know if _we_ can.”

For a long moment, Lance stares him down, eyes analyzing his expression, his words, but then he relaxes into Keith’s half embrace with a huff. “You’re an awful liar,” he says. “Adorable, but awful.” Keith bristles at the jibe, even as the compliment makes his heart flutter. 

“Let’s try it again, I guess,” Keith attempts to say in consolation, aware of how obvious it is that he’s avoiding the issue, but abruptly, Lance pulls away, Keith nearly toppling from the piano bench in surprise.

“I have an idea!” Lance proclaims, grinning in that way that simultaneously manages to make Keith’s heart warm and his stomach drop in concern. When Lance takes a step back, however, that sinking feeling instantly overwhelms any remaining warmth and fondness. He can almost hear the words Lance says next before they’ve even left his mouth.

“Why don’t you try playing it alone? You still know it, right?”

Despite himself, Keith feels his throat close, his pulse pick up. “I uh-”

“You can play what you remember and I’ll come up with something to play on top.”

“Lance, I don’t-”

Suddenly, Keith’s hands are cradled in Lance’s, warm and strong. “Don’t think about it. Just play.”

Something dry and thick gets lodged in his throat, and no matter how many times he swallows, when Keith talks, it’s still raspy and hoarse. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It is easy,” Lance assures him, no matter how impossible it seems. Still, for some reason Keith wants to believe it. So he tries to, closing his eyes for a moment before pulling his hands out of Lance’s grip and returning them to the keys. He thinks back to the summer after his senior year of high school. He thinks back to nights where he’d spent too many hours at the piano, his mother coming in to check on him with a mug of tea and a blanket. He thinks back to when Shiro would watch him practice and comment on how much he’d grown, how much he’d learned, how impressed he was.

He thinks back to when piano was easy, and he plays.

His hands still shake and his heart still pounds, but it’s ignorable. The atmosphere is less claustrophobic, Lance’s presence infinitely comforting. Right now, he’s not on stage. Right now, he’s playing for Lance and no one else. He focuses on the small quarters of the practice room and Lance’s breathing and how the piano is just slightly out of tune. He focuses on the way each note blends into the other, a perfect and fluid and detached mimic of the last time he tried to play this song.

And after a moment, when he realizes that he’s gone through a good few pages without accompaniment, he chooses to stop, slowing his hands and releasing the pedal with a shaky exhale. When he looks at Lance, his expression is unexpected, part awe and surprise and something Keith can’t quite identify. In fact, he’s staring at him so fiercely, Keith is forced to look away, swallowing back the rush of embarrassment under a slight stutter and terse words.

“W-Why weren’t you playing? I thought you were gonna make something up on top.”

Lance still doesn’t say anything, but he does place his violin and bow on the piano and move closer, continuing to stare all the while. Keith looks back at him, eyebrow raised, but before he can murmur even the first syllable of Lance’s name, the boy in question is placing a hand on the back of Keith’s neck and leaning in.

The kiss is soft but deep. When Lance breathes out, it’s a soft whimper of sound through his nose, a warm puff of air against Keith’s face, and Keith is pretty sure he’s melting. He feels like all the tension that had accumulated over the course of the rehearsal has left his body, his shoulders literally slumping, and all he can do is grab onto Lance’s waist and wonder how it could be possible for this boy to have such an effect on him. He feels overwhelmed, but also very, very lucky.

When they break apart, Lance is half straddling his lap and Keith has, at one point, found his back pressed up against the piano keys, holding most of Lance’s weight. They’re both breathing a little heavily, though Lance seems unable to catch his breath at all, licking his lips as he continues to breathe rather roughly through his nose. 

Keith doesn’t comment. Instead, he just offers a slightly winded, “What was that for?” and moves to pull Lance a little more comfortably into his lap. Lance settles in with a content noise and leans in for another quick kiss. Keith imagines he can feel Lance’s pulse slowing down between the areas where they’re touching.

“You’re amazing, you know that?” Lance hums against his lips, a roughness to his voice that has Keith’s own pulse picking back up some. “I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of watching you play.”

It’s not that he doesn’t know what to do with the compliment, it’s that the look in Lance’s eyes, the feel of their bodies pressed together, is distracting. Lance is rarely so serious, even when it comes to his playing. Even in the aftermath of his jury, Lance had been happiness and gratefulness and enthusiasm incarnate, but never this, never filled with awe and earnestness. Even his smile is soft, like that normal brightness about him is muted, dimmed into something that no longer hurts Keith’s eyes to look at. And he could look at him forever, he thinks.

“You’re not as amazing as me, but-” Lance says all of a sudden, that familiar wattage tripling, leaving him blinding and overwhelming once again, like that moment of softness had never existed. Keith sighs, rolling his eyes.

“And there it is.”

“What?” Lance grins, rolling his hips and dipping in to suck at Keith’s bottom lip, the sensation running up Keith’s spine in an equally bright shock. “Don’t deny it. I’m the most amazing musician you know.”

“Lance,” Keith tries to make the name sound like a warning, but it’s hard to do when Lance is kissing his jaw, his neck, practically purring in his ear. “We’re in a practice room,” he attempts instead, but it comes out sounding strained, all effectiveness completely diminished.

“Admit it,” Lance murmurs against the sensitive skin of his neck, wet lips leaving a cooling trail down to his collarbone. “You think I’m amazing.”

“I don’t,” Keith chokes out automatically, and Lance stiffens in his lap, traveling kisses abruptly coming to a stop. They start back up almost immediately, but Keith felt it, knows what it meant, so he struggles to finish the thought. Even though Lance’s hands have found hot and wandering purchase on the skin of his lower back. “I don’t think you’re amazing,” Keith breathes, and that’s still wrong. Incomplete. Still need to keep going. So he swallows, lets his own touch wander a bit below Lance’s shirt, tracing the pronounced feel of his spine. “I know you are.”

At this, Lance seems unable to keep himself from pulling away in surprise. As if he was expecting a compliment even less than an insult. He looks in Keith’s eyes like he’s attempting to delve in deep, pick apart the lie. So Keith puts it swiftly to rest.

“You’re the most amazing violinist I’ve ever met.” And then Keith looks away, because he can’t keep eye contact when Lance is staring at him like that, all wide eyed and stunned and adorable. “When you play… I don’t think. I just listen. And watch you. God, Lance.” It takes a few seconds, but he forces himself to look back, to capture Lance’s gaze for the next part, because it’s important for some reason. He needs Lance to know this. “I could watch you play forever. I’ll never… get tired of watching you play.” They’re Lance’s words, and Keith curses his inability to come up with a sentiment of his own, but he means it. The music world was given a gift in Lance.

Not for the first time, Keith wonders why exactly it’s taken until now for Lance to be recognized. Someone with his skill, his natural and practiced talent, should have been picked up a long time ago, college career be damned. So why? Where has he been all this time?

“Lance,” Keith hears himself whisper, and maybe it’s not the best moment to ask, be it feels important enough to mention, necessary enough to pry. “Why haven’t you-?”

A loud banging on the practice room door interrupts him, the both of them jumping nearly a foot in the air. Lance falls from Keith’s lap, a sprawled lump on the floor, and Keith bangs so hard into the keys that a dissonant chord echoes painfully in the small confines of the room. It’s still drifting with lingering harmonics when the two of them manage to gather themselves enough to glance at the door. 

Through the window, Keith can see Pidge laughing and Hunk waving sheepishly, and Keith considers leaving them locked outside out of spite. But after a second, he reaches towards the handle and jimmies it open, frowning as deeply as he can to get his point across.

Hunk opens his mouth to speak, a look of apology on his face, but Pidge cuts him off with a devious grin and a loud, “Sorry to interrupt.”

“We heard you guys practicing,” Hunk tries to save them, but Pidge is having none of it.

“Practicing,” she repeats with rather unnecessary air quotes. Keith’s face feels like it could probably fry an egg. Lance hasn’t moved from his ungraceful pile on the floor at Keith’s feet. He’s pretty sure Lance’s face is buried in the carpet, but he’s too embarrassed right now to look at him directly.

Hunk seems to notice, offering Keith another apologetic smile as he attempts, very graciously, to reclaim some semblance of their dignity. “Turns out that Student Involvement planned a surprise Movie Night On The Green.” Lance sits up like a shot, Keith visibly startling. 

“What is it?” He asks excitedly, as if he already knows what it’ll be. From what Keith has learned of Lance so far, he’s expecting some sort of action film or superhero movie. 

So he’s hardly caught off guard when Pidge looks conspiringly at Lance and says, “Top Gun.”

Lance literally jumps to his feet, fist pumping the air with a shout. He even dances over to Hunk and throws an arm around his shoulders, shaking him in excitement. “Who’s on the committee for this one? I’m sending them a bouquet of roses.”

“Excuse me?” Keith leans back against the piano, arms crossed over his chest. “Top Gun? Are you serious?”

Despite his still frenetic energy, Lance visibly bristles, looking in Keith’s direction. “Don’t knock it till you’ve watched it, Mullet Head.”

Keith very nearly runs a hand through his hair out of reflex, but he stops himself, keeping his expression neutral. “Saw it. Hated it. As did most of the general populace.”

“Blasphemy!” Lance gasps, actually going so far as to put a hand over his heart in added distress. “Top Gun is an Oscar winning-”

“Surely not true.”

“-still widely received-”

“ _Definitely_ not true.”

“-masterpiece of human entertainment!”

Keith stares up at him for a long moment before saying, voice flat and direct, “Tom Cruise is in it.”

Where Keith expects Lance to defend, or even possibly ignore the comment entirely, Lance merely smirks, leaning over to wave a finger in front of Keith’s face. Which he promptly smacks away, not that Lance seems to notice.

“You see, that’s a common misconception,” he even goes so far as to confidently point out. “Tom Cruise isn’t in this particular film. Maverick is.”

Keith groans as Pidge and Hunk chuckle simultaneously at the exchange. “Regardless of this very obvious case of denial,” he forces himself to chime back in. “We can’t just give up on rehearsals to go watch a movie. The competition is in less than two weeks.”

And despite the fact that it seems like a perfectly reasonable argument to Keith, Lance merely waves his hand between them, dismissive. “First off, it’s a movie on The Green, Keith,” he says, as if sitting on the campus lawn somehow increases the validity of his own argument. “Those only happen every other month, so gotta take advantage when we can. And secondly, they always do a double feature! We’ll just skip out on the second one and catch the last hour before practice rooms are locked for the night.”

“That would be a great plan,” Pidge interjects before Lance can physically pull Keith to his feet and out the door. They both look in her direction and her smile suspiciously widens. “If Top Gun wasn’t playing second.”

Lance gasps again, going so far as to even return his hand to his chest like the drama queen he is. Not for the first time, Keith wonders how exactly Lance, this overly dramatic loud mouth, could possibly have such an effect on him.

“Second? _Second_?! What could they possibly be playing first?”

This time, when Pidge looks at him with that devious stare and suspicious smile, Keith swears she’s looking somewhere in the general vicinity of his soul.

“One of M. Night Shyamalan’s best,” she says. Keith stiffens, thanking his lucky stars that Lance and Hunk are both looking in her direction, not his. Even when she looks back at Lance, he swears he can still feel Pidge’s eyes on him. “Don’t worry though. Signs is only like, what? A three hour movie?”

Keith only just barely manages to hold back the choked off noise that attempts to escape him.

“Signs? Are you serious?” Lance groans, actually throwing his head back for emphasis. “I take back what I said about the roses.” He knows it’s not necessarily fair of him to take offense to that, but Keith can’t seem to help the way his face scrunches into a frown as he looks away.

It’s not like Signs was the _worst_ M. Night film around, you know?

“Well, guess we can just practice here for a few more hours until Top Gun… comes on.” Lance’s voice tapers off in a strange way, and Keith realizes he’s still glaring not so subtly at a spot on the wall. He whips his head back in Lance’s direction as quickly as he can, but it appears it’s too little too late.

Hunk and Lance are staring at him in identical looks of surprise, while Pidge looks about ready to combust, her failed attempt at holding back laughter poorly concealed behind a shaking hand. Keith swears he can actually feel his blush traveling up to his ears and down his neck in opposite directions.

“W-What?” He spits out when Lance just won’t stop gawking.

“Are you…?” He whispers, voice tinged with an aggravatingly genuine level of awe. “Do you actually _like_ that movie?”

If it’s possible for a human being to become the physical embodiment of embarrassment, Keith is pretty sure he experiences it. He’s not quite aware of when he got to his feet, or why he’s suddenly in Lance’s face, but there it is.

“What? It’s not like it’s The Last Airbender or anything!” He says, pointing at Lance’s chest. “And it’s definitely not Top Gun, so you’re hardly one to talk.”

“Oh, this is the best day of my life,” Lance preens, unperturbed. “Keith Kogane, musical prodigy and self proclaimed Mr. Serious, is a fan of alien conspiracy movies? Priceless!”

“Okay, first off,” Keith practically growls, finger literally digging into Lance’s solar plexus. “The aliens don’t turn out to be a conspiracy in the end, so moot point. Secondly, it had a relatively intriguing plot for when it came out, not to mention some pretty impressive twists.”

Pidge and Lance gasp, simultaneously whispering, “He said _twists_.” 

Even when Hunk tries to interrupt, an attempt to calm everybody down before a proper fight can ensue, Keith barrels over top of him. He knows his argument’s formula sounds painfully like Lance’s, but he can’t seem to stop. He just. He actually liked Signs, okay? As far as M. Night films went, it was actually an entertaining movie!

“And thirdly, it’s both theoretically naïve and literally egotistical to consider the human race the only intelligent life in the entire universe, which is honestly really fucking cool and totally backed up by Neil Degrasse Tyson, so sue me for liking movies about aliens.”

“Oh my god,” Lance giggles, smile managing to stretch almost past the borders of his face. Pidge just shakes her head, patting Lance on the back.

“Congratulations. Your boyfriend is a space nerd.”

“I know,” Lance practically beams. “Isn’t it great?”

“Guys, come on,” Hunk tries for the umpteenth time, but before he can even get half of his, “Leave the guy alone,” out, Keith is stepping away and straightening, arms crossed back over his chest. Lance may be an inch taller than him, but that doesn’t mean he can’t raise his nose up at him a little.

“I bet you haven’t even seen it.”

This elicits a proper reaction finally, Lance’s smile faltering. “Sorry, what?”

“Signs. I bet you’ve never even given it a chance. What? Did you see crop circles and just think, “This nerd shit isn’t worth my time.” Or did you see aliens and get scared?” His own grin is definitely on the bitter side, but at least it portrays enough confidence to leave Lance’s brows furrowing, his eyes shifting sheepishly to the side.

“I’m not scared of aliens, I just don’t give a shit about them,” he mumbles. “Especially where M. Night Shyamalan is involved.”

“So you haven’t then!”

“Why _would I_?!”

“Then how about we watch them both?” Hunk finally manages to cut in, Lance and Keith both jumping away from where they’d managed to start screaming in each other’s faces.

“What now?” Pidge frowns, and Keith swears he can see disappointment on her face, not just at Hunk’s suggestion, but at the lack of continued arguing because of it.

“Let’s go to the whole double feature. It could be fun! And after, we can properly decide which one was better.” 

Lance and Keith are still glaring at each other, even as Lance says, “Obviously it’ll be Top Gun,” and Keith replies curtly, “Obviously it’ll be Signs.” But eventually, they both look away with an even more venomous, “Fine.”

“Great!” Hunk claps his hands together, grabbing Lance’s wrist in one hand and Keith’s in the other, physically pulling them from the room. “Then get a move on. Show starts in ten minutes and we still need to find a spot on The Green.”

It takes some substantial yanking, but Keith manages to remove his wrist from Hunk’s grip, mumbling a soft, “We’re going, we’re going,” as Lance and he walk ahead. Though not far enough away to miss the soft sound of Pidge whispering in Hunk’s direction.

“Wish I’d had popcorn for that, holy shit.”

As Hunk has prophesized, the lawn is practically full, though a small space to the side seems open and large enough for four people, so they claim it as their own. Keith sits down next to Lance, as expected, but less expected is when Pidge and Hunk take their space not to Lance’s right, but in front of them both.

Even Lance seems surprised by the arrangement.

“You’re not joining us?” He asks. “There’s room.”

Pidge takes all of two seconds to glance over her shoulder, sniffing at them both in distaste. “Are you kidding? And be forced to bear witness to the eventual PDA? Thanks but no thanks.”

“She means we’re giving you guys some privacy,” Hunk does his best to translate, even though Pidge’s story seems more likely. A fact made all the more relevant when Hunk adds, “And also, you guys can be really gross sometimes so. Just in case.”

“What? We don’t-” Keith pales, trying to think back to any moment of disgusting PDA Lance and he might have shared in the past, but even Lance is shaking his head at the lack of data.

“We’re never gross!” He argues. “In fact, we go out of our way to keep public displays of affection to a minimum!”

“Trust me,” Pidge scoffs, settling in more comfortably next to Hunk as the lights around The Green begin to dim. “That gooey look you guys always share is gross enough.” 

Lance makes a noise as if he’s about to continue, but someone to his right shushes him. He falls silent, crossing his arms over his chest like a child. Though not before leaning into Keith’s side with a petulant, “We’re not gross. They’re gross.” And despite it all, Keith can’t help but chuckle, adjusting Lance’s weight so that they’re pressed more comfortably together.

As the movie starts, Keith can’t help his enthusiasm, the romanticized memory of it mixing excitedly with the knowledge that he’s watching it in a new environment with a new group of friends, with his _boyfriend_ even; the label confirmed not too long ago, so still fresh and unfamiliar and exhilarating. It might have been a result of an argument, but he can’t deny the fact that he’s sharing something of his with his significant other, with Lance. And even though he’d never say as much, he secretly hopes that Lance will like it.

So, despite how much he loves the movie, despite how thoroughly he’d attempted to defend it, about a quarter of the way through, Keith finds the majority of his attention not on the screen, but on the boy sitting to his right.

For the first couple of scenes, as expected, Lance does nothing but mock every piece of dialogue, every character’s seemingly unimportant action. Loudly, and to many viewers’ annoyance.

_“How does this guy keep misplacing his kids? Father of the year, dude. Seriously.” “He’s been through a lot, Lance. There’s a reason he’s acting that way.” “Yeah. It’s called being Mel Gibson.” “Just watch the fucking movie, Roger Ebert.”_

_“So the girl’s name is Bo and the boy’s name is Morgan?” “They’re gender neutral names, Lance.” “Not in 2002.” “Does it even matter?” “I bet they accidentally shot half the film calling the kids by the wrong names and then just said, ‘Fuck it. We’re keeping ‘em.’” “Please stop.”_

_“Good thing the eight year old was grilling dinner as a plot device for eventually having to shank his own dog.” “He’s ten. And he was protecting his sister.” “I’m not saying it’s not badass. I’m just saying the kid’s probably gonna need therapy. Also those burgers are definitely burnt now.” “Oh my god.”_

But after a while, he quiets down, seemingly gaining involuntary interest. Snarky comments still fly, but the instances grow more rare. By the time Keith looks over, Lance is almost completely invested. So much so that when the video from Brazil shows the first image of the aliens, Lance jumps right along with the rest of the crowd. It’s adorable really, and in such contrast to Lance’s original behavior that Keith can’t help the small huff of laughter that escapes him.

Which prompts Lance to look over and frown, face coloring. “Shut up. You’re not even watching the movie.”

“I know,” Keith says, leaning back against his wrists and smiling. “I’m enjoying watching you more.”

Keith can practically follow the blush on Lance’s cheeks as it travels across the rest of his face and down his neck. From somewhere in front of him, probably a la Pidge, a snort interrupts the sudden, tense silence, and for a brief, panicked moment, Keith wonders what he did wrong. But then, Lance is burying his face in his hands and groaning.

“You can’t just _say_ stuff like that, man!” He whines into his palms, the words muffled.

“Say what?” Keith blurts, half offended and half still mildly worried he’d managed to be insulting somehow. Lance stays buried in his hands for a moment longer before finally peaking over at Keith through his fingers.

“Just warn me next time if you plan to be all romantic and shit, alright? You’re gonna give me a heart-attack.”

Keith blinks. Again. And again. Until he finally manages a soft and eloquent, “Oh.”

Another snort and a laugh, definitely a la Pidge, helps break the tension this time, both Keith and Lance looking vehemently in the direction of the movie.

It takes a while, but eventually they fall back into the draw of the story, though Keith still spends most of his time glancing at the boy to his side. Lance seems to be weirdly fond of Joaquin Phoenix’s character, chuckling unabashedly at the scene where he sits with the children in his own tinfoil hat. It makes Keith wonder about Lance’s family. Maybe he has a brother too? Someone who plays baseball or reads about conspiracy theories like they’re fact. 

Keith spends the next couple of scenes wondering about Lance’s home life, his parents, imagining Lance with a big brother that looks identical to Merrill Hess. That is, until he gets swept away in the final arc of the film.

As it does every time he watches it, Keith’s heart aches a bit as the family sits around the dinner table, their perpetual Last Meals before them. When Graham Hess breaks down, eating his food through desperate tears, Keith hears a small breath escape his own nose, his chest tightening. That scene has always felt weirdly heavy to him. Heavier than it probably ought to. Something about the way Graham loses it, crumbling into the arms of his children, his brother, clinging to them like he’s worried he’ll never see them again. Because he might not; they might not survive the night. It’s emotional in that cinematic sort of way, yes, but it’s also something else, something more painful than that, something-

There’s a hand suddenly wrapping around his own, fingers weaving between fingers, and Keith jumps a bit, glancing to his side. Lance is still looking at the screen, but the grip on his hand tightens. No teasing, no questions, just the anchoring pressure of an already familiar comfort. As Keith leans over, pressing his shoulder lightly against Lance’s, the ache in his chest loosens some. They watch the rest of the movie in silence.

Well. Almost silence.

“Wow,” Lance scoffs, though much softer this time than before. “Hello early two-thousands CGI.”

“Congratulations,” Keith huffs back, but there’s barely any venom behind it. “You actually managed to make it through a good forty-five minutes without a sarcastic comment.”

“I’m just sayin’, the dude looks like he was made in a first model 3-D printer. And why does he look so human? Like seriously, if aliens are really out there, do you honestly think they’re gonna look like bald, chameleon skinned, basketball players? Someone on the creative staff had, like, zero artistic originality on this one.”

Keith opens his mouth to say something, probably a scathing comment or at the very least a concise, “Shut up,” but what actually manages to come out is an unexpected, half choked burst of laughter. Even Lance seems surprised by it, glancing over at him with a raised eyebrow and the beginnings of a smirk. 

“Oh ho ho! Is that the sound of Keith joining the This Movie Sucks Ass Association?”

Keith scoffs, though the slight snort and continuous laughter kind of diminish the overall legitimacy of his argument. “It doesn’t suck and you know it.”

Again, surprisingly, Lance grins, shoving his shoulder against Keith’s, caving. “You’re right. It doesn’t suck. Much.” And Keith’s heart sputters and dies. 

But, to save face, Keith does his best to click his tongue, forcing words out that might distract from how obviously happy he is. “You might as well just say it’s Not Bad.”

Lance shrugs, nodding once for good measure. “Exactly. And you know what?” He upholds his grin with unwavering resolve, leaning into Keith’s personal space and pressing their shoulders snugly together. Keith hums what he hopes is noncommittally, keeping his expression neutral despite how his face heats. Lance’s eyes soften a bit, hooded and warm. “You’re not bad either.”

Despite the way his stomach flips and his heart picks up, Keith wills himself to roll his eyes and groan; the day he openly swoons at one of Lance’s cheesy pickup lines is the day he relinquishes all claim to his dignity. “Is that supposed to be flattering?”

Even though there’s hardly any space left to cover, Lance continues to lean in, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth before practically _purring_ , “Why? Are you flattered?”

And maybe he’s feeling bold, maybe he’s riding a little bit of a high being this happy, this content after so long, but Keith finds himself licking his lips, chest tightening when Lance’s eyes dip down to watch.

“And what would you do if I was?”

From this close, Keith can see every detail of Lance’s reaction to that, the slight widening of his eyes, the dilating of his pupils, the creeping flush along his cheeks, his ears. Even the subtle and momentary parting of his lips is on full display. All and all, it’s a beautiful and intoxicating accumulation of responses, and Keith can’t help but feel proud of himself for eliciting them.

Before Keith gets the chance to see Lance flounder for an answer however, or perhaps even forgo one for a more deliciously physical response, Pidge’s voice interrupts, the two of them startling away from where they’d been very nearly nose to nose.

“See what I mean?” She says to Hunk, though obviously loud enough for Lance and Keith to hear. “Gross.”

Pidge keeps her eyes locked on the rolling credits in lieu of insulting them directly, but Hunk glances over his shoulder in her stead. “She’s not wrong,” he shrugs, and then, half teasing, half something akin to fondness, he adds, “You guys are gonna give me diabetes.”

Which doesn’t make sense. What does their flirting, as unexpected and embarrassing as it’s turned out to be, have anything to do with a legitimate illness? Is Hunk being serious? Should they be worried? The confusion must show on Keith’s face, because Hunk turns back around with a soft chuckle and Lance nudges him with his shoulder again.

“He means because we’re so sweet.”

It takes a pathetically long and awkwardly drawn out moment, not to mention another barely restrained chuckle from Hunk and Lance this time, before Keith finally gets the joke.

“Oh my god,” he groans, burying his face in his hands to the irritating soundtrack of all three of their now unabashed laughter.

“It’s alright, babe,” Lance continues to chuckle, even as he pats Keith on the back patronizingly. “We accept you for who you are, obliviousness and all.” Maybe out of spite, but mostly humiliation, Keith leaves his face in his hands a little longer, Lance’s touch evolving into slow circles pressed lightly between his shoulder blades.

“I think we broke him,” Hunk mumbles after a moment. So Keith chooses to swallow down his embarrassment and lift his head.

“Sorry. I was just lamenting the fact that even my boyfriend’s _friends_ are meme loving assholes.”

It’s not until the words have already left his mouth that he realizes. This is the first time he’s said it out loud, let alone in _public_ , and by the flashes of expression on Lance’s face, surprised then giddy then smug, he realizes this little fact too. Much to Keith’s dismay.

“Not to worry! One of the many perks of being my _boyfriend_ , aside from getting all my good looks and witty humor all to yourself, is my ability to instill necessary nuggets of social wisdom! Your _boyfriend_ will have you up to date on meme culture and pop culture in no time, young padawon!”

Keith snorts, cutting him off with a pointed, “I’d rather eat my own foot,” at the same time that Pidge chimes in with an equally sarcastic, “He’d probably rather eat his own foot.” Pidge looks over her shoulder just as Keith’s gaze darts to her back, the two of them locking eyes for a moment before breaking into a fit of giggles.

“Har har,” Lance sniffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “Who’s side are you on anyway, Pidge?”

“Yours if you go grab us some popcorn from the TKE booth,” she replies without hesitation, fishing a dollar out of her pocket and dangling it in front of his face. Lance narrows his eyes at it for a moment before snatching it out of her grasp.

“I was gonna go get popcorn for Keith and I anyway,” he makes it a point to say as he gets to his feet. “Can’t watch the greatest film of all time without some good movie snacks!” And just like that, Lance’s good mood seems to return, the boy literally sauntering across the Green towards the concessions booth the Tau Kappa Epsilon house has set up. With a reluctantly fond shake of his head, Keith watches him go.

Lance can talk to anybody, it seems. He says hello to everyone he passes on his way, chatting with the frat boy behind the booth like they’re old friends, and Keith can’t help but feel a complicated mix of emotions at the sight. Jealousy at Lance’s easy ability to interact with other people. Adoration for the exact same reason. Pride at knowing that Lance talks to him differently, whispered nothings or playful teases that no one else gets to hear. Confusion at how he’s managed to be that person for Lance at all. Happiness at the fact that Lance will be joining him again in moments, that they’ll walk back to his dorm together after the movie, that maybe Lance will stay the night.

Oh. And attraction. As Lance lets his head fall back with a laugh Keith can hear even from here, the span of his neck stretching beautifully as his eyes crinkle closed, Keith is blatantly reminded of attraction.

Not for the first time, he finds himself thinking about how strange this all is. He’s been with people in the past, but this? Every moment that’s led them here? It all seems so wonderfully impossible. And also terrifyingly fragile. 

The more things go right, the happier he becomes, the more Keith starts waiting for the proverbial shoe to drop. It’s something he’s always hated about himself, but now more so thane ever. He doesn’t want the shoe to drop. He doesn’t want to expect it to. He wants it to stay suspended in space and time for eternity and leave Lance and him alone.

“For someone who prides themselves on keeping their emotions under wraps, you’re a pretty open book, you know that?”

Keith snaps to attention, ripping his eyes away from Lance and back to his friends, both of which are eyeing him with an unnerving and relatively suspicious amount of mirth. “What?” Keith fumbles out, raising an eyebrow at them as if to combat their suspicion with his own.

“When you let your mind wander,” Hunk clarifies, smiling. “Your face starts talking more than you do.”

At this, Keith can’t help but frown, the words forming just shy of an intelligible sentence. “I don’t…”

“He’s saying we can tell you really like Lance,” Pidge shrugs. “Your face gets all scrunchy and fond looking.” And then, for good measure, she adds, “It’s still gross, but it’s also kinda sweet. So whatever.”

For the second time tonight, Keith buries his face in his hands with a groan, though when Hunk and Pidge giggle softly, he finds he’s not as pissed off about it this time.

Still, he makes it a point to mumble, “Don’t tell him okay? He’s got a big enough head as it is.” To which they both nod in firm acquiescence.

By the time Lance comes back, multiple bags of popcorn and a soda in hand, Keith and Pidge are having a rather heated debate about the conspiratorial inaccuracies in Signs and other early alien-themed media.

“Careful, Keith,” Lance plops back into the grass at Keith’s side and tacks himself onto the last topic effortlessly. “Keep going and Pidge will try to convince you it’s possible to be abducted by aliens.” He’s smirking in Pidge’s direction as if he’s expecting her response. What he doesn’t seem to expect, however, is Keith’s.

“I was abducted when I was eight.”

Lance’s head whips in his direction, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape. He scans Keith’s face in disbelief, looking for the joke, but Keith remains expressionless. In fact, he does so long enough that even Pidge begins to look concerned, maybe even a little intrigued. Which is a shame; he hardly wants to offend her, but he can’t help himself. After another beat, gaze locking with Pidge, Hunk, and Lance in turn, he starts laughing.

“Seriously, guys?” He chuckles. “Oh my god.”

“Sh-Shut up!” Lance huffs, opening up his bag of popcorn specifically so he can throw a handful in Keith’s face. “Alien abduction just made sense, you know? Considering how weird you are and stuff.”

“Sick burn, Lance,” Pidge says half-sarcastically, starting to chuckle herself. 

It doesn’t take long for Hunk to join in on the laughter, grabbing at Keith’s shoulder in a friendly gesture that makes his heart swell proudly. The feeling stays even as Hunk chuckles out a teasing, “Get wrecked,” giving Keith’s shoulder a firm shake before letting go.

“I’m just saying,” Lance crosses his arms over his chest, pointing his nose in the air. “It would have explained a few things.”

Keith can’t help but roll his eyes, grabbing the popcorn out of Lance’s lap and popping a couple in his mouth. “Like what?”

And just like that, Lance’s whole demeanor shifts, his lips tugging up in a flirtatious smirk as he leans in close. He even _waggles his eyebrows_ , for god’s sake, all but purring in Keith’s ear.

“Like how your ass is outta this world.”

Keith chokes on his popcorn. 

As Lance pulls away, weirdly proud of himself, Hunk and Pidge simultaneously turn back to the screen with a sigh, done with the two of them once more, it would seem.

“Are- Are you serious?” Keith coughs once he’s managed to dislodge the popcorn from the back of his throat.

“What?” Lance grins, even patting Keith on the back a bit to soothe the cough, not that it helps. “My pick up lines too much for you?”

The thing is, no matter how cringe worthy the method, hearing Lance talk about his ass at all is kinda flustering. Not to mention, the blush currently spreading across his cheeks is probably answer enough. So in lieu of admitting or denying anything, Keith just shoves more popcorn in his mouth.

“Just drink your damn soda and shut up,” he mumbles through his mouth full.

Lance laughs, loud and vibrant and stupidly adorable. “Aw. An embarrassed Keith is a rare and beautiful thing,” he eventually says with a sigh, wiping at a nonexistent tear. “Also, it’s _our_ soda. I got it to share.”

Still feeling the remnants of a tickle in the back of his throat, Keith takes that as permission and reaches for the drink. Halfway to his mouth, he pauses.

“Wait. Why does it have two straws?” 

Lance just raises an eyebrow at him like he’s being obtuse. “Because sharing straws is gross?” 

“Dude,” Keith shoots the same expression back at him tenfold. “We literally swap spit on the regular.” 

“That’s different! Besides, this is more romantic.” And as if to emphasize his point, Lance scoots in close and takes a sip out of one of the straws. “It’s like sharing a milkshake in the fifties!” 

Despite the way the proximity makes Keith feel warm and kinda giddy, he’s never been one to back down from a challenge. Especially when his opponent is Lance. 

“I don’t see what’s so romantic about a milkshake. Or the fifties for that matter. Especially for two very obvious homosexuals.” 

There’s a beat of tense silence where Keith is certain Lance is going to pull away, but instead, he just crowds even further into Keith’s personal space. Keith can practically feel the pout in his voice. “You see? This is why we can’t have nice things.”

Thankfully, the movie starts, the two of them remaining tucked tight against the other. Keith doesn’t admit it out loud, but Top Gun is actually pretty entertaining, albeit hardly to the level Lance had been proclaiming. In all honesty, he really enjoys it, though that’s probably thanks more to the company than the film.

Keith makes it a point to occasionally drink out of Lance’s straw just to piss him off. Lance shoves popcorn down his shirt. Pidge and Hunk vehemently ignore them a good ninety percent of the time. One particularly brutal popcorn fight ends in them half sprawled on top of each other, much to the annoyance of the students in their general vicinity, but Lance doesn’t seem to notice and Keith doesn’t care. 

In fact, he doesn’t care about anything right now really. Not the looming competition date or the way rehearsals for it haven’t been all that good. Not the way Lance occasionally has to stop mid rambling to wince and place a hand against his chest. Not how sometimes, when Lance thinks he’s not looking, Keith catches glimpses of him rubbing at the tips of his fingers, like Keith does when his arm falls asleep and his hand goes numb.

No. In the glow of the Student Involvement Committee’s projector, with a half ignored soundtrack of Tom Cruise’s one liners and some cinematic action music, Keith doesn’t care about any of that. All he cares about is Lance’s shoulder pressed comfortably against his, their hands tangled loosely. All he cares about is how much he needed this moment and how much he wants it to last forever. All he cares about is having Lance half sprawled into his lap for the rest of his life.

It’s sappy and it’s overzealous, but he doesn’t care about that either. It’s the truth, and he’s content. Not that he’ll ever say it out loud, of course; for now, he’ll just silently revel in it. And if Lance blinks at him in pleasant surprise when Keith steals a quick kiss between scenes, it’s worth it.

One of these days he’ll have to ask Pidge how she knew about his love for Signs. Depending on her answer, maybe he’ll even thank her. 

Maybe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually had to watch Sign again to write this. But worth it. As far as M. Night movies go, I'm with Keith.
> 
> Thanks as always to everyone who read, commented, kudos'd, the lot. This fic continues to be written for you. 
> 
> Hopefully see you sooner rather than later this time for ch. 7! And keep an eye out for another project going up in between. That's one's 99% done and smutty as all hell, so you've been warned.


	7. Seventh Movement: L'istesso Tempo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **_L'istesso Tempo:_** an indication used when the "meter" of a piece of music changes, but the speed of the beat stays the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry again for all the radio silence, my dudes. Ups and downs, good writing days, bad everything days. But! I hope this plot filled and super long chapter makes up for it a little. 
> 
> Real Life has finally startle to balance out, so if I can keep on this level, I'm hoping to finish the final chapters sooner rather than later.
> 
> To everyone who has read and commented and hit me with kudos, I adore you. This fic is nearing completion because of you.
> 
> Warning: mild smut ahead.

_“Hey, Keith!”_ Lance’s voice prods at his attention like an incomplete melody. Tempting, frustrating, demanding to be finished. “Did you hear? We did it!”

They’re standing alone in the middle of a competition stage, piano pushed to the side so that Lance can stand at the center. His face is bright and eager and so, so beautiful. Keith’s hand rests against the glossy, black wood, fingers digging into the prop, and when he opens his mouth to ask Lance what he means, an envelope is forced into his free hand.

“The Masters’ Program, dude! We got in!”

Sure enough, when the envelope is torn open and the papers unfolded, it’s an acceptance packet to the university’s graduate program, the program that was Keith’s main reason for attending the university in the first place. He’d forgotten about it, dismissed it, never brought it up to Lance at all. And yet, despite the inconsistencies, despite the swell of pride, what circles his mind most is the certainty in Lance’s voice, the implication of his words.

 _We_ did it. _We_ got in. _We. We. We._

 _“So, Keith,”_ Lance’s voice yanks at his attention like a dog on a leash. Determined, excitable, expecting the world. “Any embarrassing childhood stories I should know about?”

They’re sitting around the old, dining room table his parents bought three years ago. His mom and dad chuckle at the question, holding hands, smiling, very much alive. But the childhood stories are few and far between, and they aren’t really around to tell them, so how is it that Lance can still make him laugh and blush and shake his head in semi-feigned panic? How is it that, when everyone laughs at his discomfort, when his mother’s eyes go mischievous and his father’s apologetic, it doesn’t feel like the reopening of a gnarled and infected wound?

How is it that, just having Lance there can make it seem like family dinners are still possible, as though nothing has been lost? Like, with Lance sitting next to him, that emptiness he always feels can slowly, finally, start being filled again?

 _“Um, Keith?”_ Lance’s voice tugs at his attention like a child tugging at a grown up’s sleeves. Hesitant, nervous, scared of the unknown. “Do you ever just… look at the stars sometimes?”

They’re standing in that spot, the spot where they kissed, where they fought, where it feels like so many things began. Keith’s back is pressed into the railing, a direct contrast to how Lance leans half his body towards the lake. And when Keith glances at him, Lance is looking up, up, up.

So Keith can’t help but look up too, taking in the great expanse of night sky. The universe feels closer somehow, and yet infinitely distant and unattainable. Like looking out at the perpetual forever of space from the inside of a ship, close enough to admire, to be surrounded on all sides, but far enough away to never touch or be touched.

“Do you think that’s where we go?” Lance wonders aloud.

Keith opens his mouth to ask, “What do you mean? Where are you going?” He tries to form words, any words, tries to make his tongue shift and change, but no sound comes out. Only silent confusion and undefined panic.

It doesn’t matter, though. Lance clarifies anyway.

“Do you think that’s where we go when we die?” He finally lowers his eyes from the sky, capturing Keith’s gaze like a held breath, a promise. “You think maybe we become stars?”

They’re only inches from each other, shoulders all but pressed together, and yet, when Keith reaches out to grab his hand, he’s too far away, just like the universe, just like the stars.

 _Don’t be a star_ , his mind screams. _Be Lance. Be here_ , it begs.

Lance seems unaware, looking back towards the night sky like he’s waiting for it to swallow him up and take him away.

“Keith,” he whispers, and it sounds like fear.

“Keith,” he groans, and it sounds like frustration.

“Keith,” he sighs, and it sounds like happiness.

_Keith. Keith. Keith. Keith._

.x.X.x.

“Keeeiiith.”

His eyes are gummy with sleep, heart still stuttering underneath the fractured memory of the dream. It’s discombobulating, so much so that it takes a good couple of seconds for him to realize that there are lips mumbling against his neck, a knee settled suggestively between his legs.

“Hey, Keith,” Lance’s voice whispers in soft sing-song just below the shell of his ear. “You awake?”

“Mmmuh?” is what he manages to get out, the response a vibration of a chuckle tickling at his pulse point, a breath of half-sound that warms his skin. There’s a soft hum, Lance burying further into Keith’s cocoon of blanketed space, and the grogginess begins to dissipate.

“Are you awake noooow?” Lance purrs against sensitive skin, a hand trailing down to lightly skim the edge of his waistband. Keith can’t help but buck his hips at the touch, a soft grunt catching at the back of his throat.

“You really have to ask?” He breathes, brain finally awake enough to give his own hands orders to wander. So he reaches out, runs sleep-warmed fingers along the curve of Lance’s spine expecting the obstacle of fabric. But Lance is already shirtless. A rush of heat settles low in his gut and his hands slide down to mirror Lance’s, fingers dipping past elastic toward the swell of his ass. Because Lance has a very, _very_ nice ass.

And Lance is the first one to make a proper sound to tonight, it would seem, a low moan at Keith’s almost touch, his own hips not so much rolling as slotting into place. The sensation is enough to make them both shiver, which is what ultimately alerts Keith to the fact that Lance had already been shaking.

Event through the fog of arousal, Keith can feel the worry creeping up the back of his neck, a cold concern battling against the heat that’s rising between them. When Lance dips in to kiss from jaw to neck to collarbone, it takes everything Keith has to get the question out.

“Why are you awake?” He struggles to say, the words barely more than a half gasp, half sigh, still crackly from sleep. Lance is wiggling on top of him, fingers toying at the area around his waist, his hips. Distracting. “It’s still dark out.”

Lance’s teeth scrape at the juncture of shoulder and neck, sucking not enough to bruise but definitely enough to make Keith shiver and moan.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he murmurs against that same spot, but it’s not hard to hear the evasion. Especially when it’s punctuated by Lance’s hand finally, finally diving into his boxers, barely giving him a chance to breathe before setting up a determined rhythm. Each stroke is like fire, like flashes of electricity, like all those cliché but totally believable comparisons. Because Keith _keens_ , back arching off the bed, thoughts whiting out for a second at the feel of Lance’s grip around him.

This isn’t like Lance, though. Not really. Sure, Keith learned pretty quickly that Lance is a bit of a horndog, but he’s also weirdly a gentleman about it, a hardcore romantic even. Sleepy morning sex is one thing. Waking him up in the middle of the night for it is another.

“L-Lance,” Keith tries to be stern, but it comes out barely more than a stutter, any forcefulness behind it diminished by the whine that coats the end of his name.

“Yeah, babe?” Lance coos, but he chooses that moment to twist his hand and Keith sees stars. He can feel himself getting close, heat coiling thick and heady and it’s distracting, distracting, distracting. But the dream is still vivid behind his tightly clenched eyes, dream Lance’s words echoing in tandem with the real Lance’s panting breaths and soft murmurs.

_Do you think that’s where we go when we die?_

“Hold… Ah, h-hold on a second,” Keith wills himself to say, much to the dismay of his peaking arousal. Especially as Lance’s hand stops, his body pulling back just enough for his eyes, dilated and clouded, to lock on to Keith’s for a long, weighted moment.

“Do you wanna stop?” Lance offers into the awkward silence that follows. And when Keith searches his face, waits for a frustration or a disappointment that never comes, he finds himself thinking of starry nights, of a universe both too close and too far away. He can see it in Lance’s wandering eyes, in the tightness of his forced smirk.

_You think maybe we become stars?_

Something clicks, Keith’s heart steadying, his hands moving away from Lance’s back to loop around his neck. He pulls him down, tighter, closer.

“Are you okay?”

Lance tenses, surprised. Then, after one beat, two, he shakes his head into the crook of Keith’s shoulder.

Keith lets out a breath, holding Lance in a firm embrace and trying not to shudder when his touch vanishes from Keith’s boxers. Lance’s arms settle up and around Keith’s shoulders, and there’s no other way to describe it other than clinging.

“What’s, um. What’s up?” Keith whispers eloquently into the silence, because he’s not good at this sort of stuff, but the way Lance is slightly trembling makes him feel like he has to do _something_.

Unfortunately, all Lance offers is a redundant, “I couldn’t sleep.”

Again, Keith thinks about stars, about space and the universe and everything in between. He thinks about Lance’s smile and his childish frown and that look he gets when he’s genuinely concerned. “Why not?” Keith asks.

It takes him a while, and when he finally responds, it’s nearly soft enough to miss, a quiet mumble into the sleeve of Keith’s shirt. But eventually, he whispers back, “I’m scared.”

Keith’s heart clenches, his grip tightening out of reflex as if he can smother those words, that fear, with an embrace alone. “Why are you scared?” He asks before he considers the face that sometimes he can be a bit… tactless.

“You know why,” Lance spits out, and it sounds understandably bitter, but also hurt and frustrated and yeah. Definitely scared. Barely more than a second later, however, his shoulders slump some, his face burrowing further into Keith’s chest. “Sorry, I just…”

Another silence stretches, each one tenser than the last, so Keith breaks this one quickly, though perhaps still a bit tactlessly.

“Have you been… feeling worse or something?”

The huff of sound Lance lets out is somewhere along the lines of an amused snort, as if he can tell that Keith is trying, he’s just really, really bad at it.

“Not worse that usual, no,” Lance eventually mumbles. “It’s just. Sometimes.” Another slight tremor rocks them both, Lance sucking in a shaking breath before continuing. “Sometime I worry that I won’t wake up, you know? Like… Like in the middle of the night, my heart will finally call it quits and that’ll be it. That I’ll just- That I just won’t-” The tremors turn to full on shakes, Lance’s words quivering just as harshly, and Keith starts to panic right along with him.

It takes a bit of effort, but Keith forces them both to sit up, arms still wrapped snugly around Lance’s shivering form. “Hey, hey, hey, you’re okay, you’re gonna be alright, just-” Keith reaches over to flip on the light as best he can without jostling Lance, and when his eyes adjust, he barely recognizes the boy in his arms. Hands fisting the fabric of Keith’s shirt like it’s his last tie to earth, eyes clenched tight and jaw tense, eyebrows furrowed in a panicked and frightened arch.

With a thick, uncertain swallow, Keith runs his fingers through Lance’s hair. His scalp is damp with sweat. “You’re not gonna-” is about all he gets out before Lance flinches against him, furiously shaking his head.

“I know it’s irrational,” he grits out. “I know I’m not… I know it’s unlikely, but I just.” He pulls away, though his grip is still relentlessly fisted in Keith’s shirt, and when he blinks open his eyes, they’re red and wet. “Sometimes it just feels safer to stay awake.” Eyes flicker from Keith’s face to the bed, surprisingly shy. “I was hoping you’d… You know. Keep me awake.”

His voice cracks and he looks so broken and embarrassed and Keith doesn’t know what to do, he really doesn’t. But he reaches out to place a careful hand against Lance’s cheek anyway, wiping with his thumb at the half fallen tear beneath his eyes. He leans in, placing a single, chaste kiss against his lips. “We can both stay awake, if you want,” he offers, because it sounds right, and it’s all he has to give. Company and comfort. It’s a bittersweet relief when Lance nods in response.

In the end, with the forced mood long gone and the tension still heavy, they decide to watch a movie, Lance’s choice. He picks War of the Worlds and they snuggle as tightly together as they can, laptop resting on both of their thighs. They argue and nitpick and after half an hour, the stress has finally, mostly bled out of them both.

Another hour later, and Lance has blissfully fallen asleep.

Keith lets the rest of the movie play out, but he doesn’t watch it. Instead, he makes note of every single breath Lance takes, in and out, until sleep lures him in as well.

When he wakes up a couple of hours later, Lance is curled around him like a koala, mumbling something about “Tom Cruise’s stupid face.” It makes the night before seems surreal, like a dream within a dream, but after letting him rest a bit longer, Keith still makes it a point to kiss Lance awake. Just in case.

.x.X.x.

“I’m sorry I’m late!” Lance shouts, scrambling into the practice room like a whirlwind, throwing his violin in the chair and dipping in to kiss Keith on the cheek in nearly the same fluid motion. A good couple of feet behind him, Pidge and Hunk round the corner towards them, clearly beyond following Lance’s frantic lead.

“Five days, Lance,” Keith frowns from his seat at the piano, pinching at the bridge of his nose. “That’s all the practice time we have left. Five days.”

“I know, I know, I know,” Lance waves one hand dismissively as the other expertly works open his violin case. “I just lost track of time, I’m sorry.”

By that point, Pidge and Hunk have made their way inside the practice room, closing the door behind them. Keith watches as they share a look, something dark and difficult for Keith to define, but he doesn’t have time to worry about that right now.

“We’re still having issues with the second tempo change. And what about your melodic arrangement for the final movement? We don’t have time to-”

“Keith, chill,” Lance laughs, already most of the way through tuning. He’s got his classical violin balanced between his chin and his shoulder, fingers poking and prodding at pegs and strings like they’ve done it a million times before. When he’s finally satisfied, he grabs instrument and bow and lets them dangle at his side. His smile is smug but infection. “We’ve got this.”

Clearly he has more confidence than Keith does, but he tries not to hold it against him, shuffling the sheet music to their problem spots and settling in. Everything else is memorized; he’s had this piece memorized for a long time. Hunk and Pidge take their places on the couch tucked into the far corner. What with the competition looming, they all thought it would be good to get some practices in in front of an audience, though whether it’ll prove beneficial is still up in the air.

They have yet to make thought a single rehearsal without fighting, crashing and burning, or giving up in frustrated defeat.

After a deep breath in and out, Keith lowers his hands to the keys. “Alright. From the-”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lance swings his bow in Keith’s direction, just as dismissive as the wave of his hand. “From the top. I get it. Let’s do this.”

Heat rushes to Keith’s face for a moment as he watches an amused glance pass between Hunk and Pidge. Regardless, he ignores it, playing those first few solitary measures of piano without further preamble.

When Lance joins him, fluidly interweaving the melody, something shifts. Unlike previous rehearsal, this run feels different, more secure. Maybe Lance has been practicing on his own, maybe they’re just feeling on point today. Hell, maybe they really do just do better with an audience, but either way, they sync up almost perfectly and with barely any mistakes.

For the first time in a while, Keith is reminded of just how much he enjoys this. He’s reminded of just how different it feels, how much Lance’s presence alone helps Keith relax and get lost in it, in them. He loves playing with Lance almost as much as he loves-

Huh.

And he _does_ love Lance, doesn’t he? Not just for his brilliant playing and his ability to remind Keith of how much he’s missed the piano, but for reasons completely unrelated to music too. Somewhere along the line, he’s fallen in love with his smile and his laugh and his cheesy pickup lines. He’s fallen in love with his competitive streak and his inability to tell when a joke will probably be poorly timed. His doubts, his fears, his kindness, his goofiness, he’s fallen in love with all of it somehow.

Yeah. Keith has fallen in love. And it’s terrifying, but also… Also strangely liberating. Strangely the best thing that has ever happened to him.

They finish the run through with only a few hiccups, and when Keith looks over at him, Lance is looking back, grinning wide like he knows.

Keith really hopes he knows.

A sudden noise breaks the moment. Pidge and hunk are clapping, a soft applause that still manages to sound genuine, and Keith looks away, looks towards the keys. His heart is pounding a little, and for some reason he feels… confused. Excited and happy but a bit anxious too, like he just discovered something he wasn’t supposed to.

_“This ruins everything.”_

Keith’s heart flips, stomach dropping at the memory, but they’re past that, have been for a while. There’s no reason for him to still-

“That was amazing, guys!” Hunk stands up, still clapping. Pidge has already stopped, leaning back into her chair to eye the two of them with an amused and frustratingly knowing smirk.

“Yeah,” she nods. “You don’t sound half bad.”

“Thanks?” Keith bristles a bit, but Lance bows with an overdramatic flourish.

“Damn straight!” He preens, popping an imagined collar before wrapping an arm around Keith’s shoulders. “We’re gonna kick fuckin’ ass!” And for just a second, under the comforting weight of Lance’s touch, Keith actually believes it.

They play through the piece a few more times before Lance decides to call it a day, stretching his arms over his head with a groan as if they’ve been playing for days not hours.

“Well, Hunk and I’ve got a thing, so we’re gonna bounce.”

“A thing?” Keith huffs, eyebrow raised, but PIdge chimes in before his suspicions can grow.

“I don’t know if I’d call playing Rocket League and eating pizza a thing, but you boys have fun.”

“If it happens more than once, it’s a thing,” Lance sniffs, violin already packed up and slung back over his shoulder.

“And we’ve got a weekly schedule going now,” Hunk adds. “So it’s practically tradition at this point.”

“Which you’re more than welcome to join in on, by the way.” Lance looks from Pidge to the piano. “You too, Keith.”

Surprisingly enough, Keith finds himself considering it, but video games have never really been his thing. He prefers something more physical, less button smashing. Not to mention, he doesn’t feel like interrupting any sort of tradition, so. “I’ll pass.”

“Same,” Pidge nods. “Maybe if it was Bloodborne or something, but I’m good on bumper cars playing soccer.”

“Rude,” Lance announces decisively, but Pidge goes on unfazed.

“I have a meeting with my Physics professor right now anyway.”

Which reminds Keith of exactly what day and time they’d chosen for this little makeup rehearsal.

“Shit. I’ve gotta go meet Shiro.” He gets to his feet and starts shoving sheet music into his bag, everyone filing into the hallway.

“Guess that’s our cue to disperse!” Lance proclaims, and Keith can’t help but chuckle, shaking his head a little. It’s like Lance can’t do anything by halves, even leaving. And as if to prove this point, Lance looks at him then, reaching out in Keith’s direction with an exaggerated grabby motion. It’s not without another eyebrow raise, but Keith does as he’s silently told, stepping into Lance’s personal space.

When Lance kisses him, it’s quick but tender, a soft press of lips that makes Keith’s heart flutter and his face flush. Logically he knows that time hasn’t stopped, but he still feels suspended, anchored to this moment as Lance pulls away, the picture of contentment. He doesn’t want Lance to go, he realizes. Which is silly, he’s just going back to Hunk’s dorm, but he wants to stay in this little slice of suspended time a little bit longer. He can still feel the tingle of a good rehearsal in his fingers, hear Lance’s violin ringing in his ears, and when he licks his lips, he imagines he can still taste Lance on his tongue. A beautiful moment over too quickly.

“Say hi to Shiro for me!” Lance grins and turns to follow Hunk down the hall, completely unaware of Keith’s silent clinging. It breaks the hold on him, lifts the anchor right out of the sea and brings Keith back to the present.

“Will do,” Keith calls after him, even though he’s already turned the corner. It takes him a second to start heading in the opposite direction, heart hammering against his chest like it’s demanding answers Keith just doesn’t have.

It was just a moment, just a kiss. They’ve had plenty of those over the last few months. So what made that one special? A good rehearsal? An audience?

Being in love?

All Keith knows is that he wants more of them, more of those moments suspended in time, just the two of them. He wants as many as the universe will give him. It feels greedy and selfish and more than a little daunting, but… Surely that’s not too much to ask, right? He’s allowed that much after all this time, isn’t he?

.x.X.x.

By the time he finally walks into the café, he’s fifteen minutes late. Which is exactly why he b-lines for the counter and goes about ordering his drink before sparing even a glance towards their usual table. Not that it helps. He can feel Shiro’s eyes on him all the way through ordering. 

When he finally gets his drink and starts making his way towards Shiro, however, it’s not a look of disappointment or anger on his face, but something much more amused.

“So,” he says without preamble before Keith’s even taken a seat. “You’re late.”

“Sorry,” Keith apologizes quickly, sipping at his coffee despite how it burns his tongue. “Lost track of time.” It’s Lance’s reason for being late come back to bite him in the ass, but it’s all Keith can think of, mentally kicking himself for the reiteration. Shiro still doesn’t seem upset, even going as far as to lean onto his elbow and smirk. 

“Good rehearsal? Or just a good time with your boyfriend?”

And that sounds far too suggestive to merit a response, so Keith glares at him for a moment before putting on a smug look of his own. “What about you? You’re looking more relaxed than usual. Your date with Allura yesterday go well?”

As expected, a light blush spreads across Shiro’s cheeks before he manages to look away, coughing slightly before answering. “It wasn’t a date. She just came over to help me with tempo markings.”

“Oh, is that what the kids are calling it nowadays?” 

“Drop it, Keith. It’s not like that.”

“What? You can dish it out but you can’t take it?”

“Like you’re one to talk.”

“You should just ask her out already. Maybe you wouldn’t be so embarrassed if you two were actually dating.”

“Which seems to be working real well for you,” Shiro rolls his eyes, voice dripping in sarcasm. Then he pauses, seeming to actually reflect on the words for a moment. “But maybe I should.” The look of surprise that flashes across Keith’s face must be blatant, because Shiro chuckles, raising his coffee mug to his lips as if to hide his smile.

After no further explanation, Keith feels forced to ask, “Why the change of heart?”

Shiro just continues to smile, placing his mug back on the table. “I’m a little jealous, I guess.” Again, Keith’s look of surprise must be enough for Shiro to understand his confusion, because this time he generously adds, “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you this happy. Playing the piano again, making friends… I think Lance is good for you.”

If it was impossible to keep the looks of surprise off his face, it’s even more so with the blush that rushes to his cheeks. He wants to tell Shiro that he has no idea what he’s talking about. He wants to tell him that it’s no big deal, that if anything _Keith_ is good for _Lance_. Because Lance is annoying and frustrating and they argue half the time, so you can hardly call that being _happier_ , right? Just different, or better maybe, but not in any life changing way. And sure, Keith is in love with him, but that’s not- Well. Okay. So maybe, as confusing as that sentiment may be, he might be a little happier than he has been the last few months. Alright, a lot happier. Which is why, the response that eventually ends up coming out of his mouth is something far, far more telling.

“You’re right,” he mumbles. And then, as if to back-peddle as far from the admission as possible, he tacks on to the end of that, “You should ask her out.”

But Shiro’s known him for a long time, so the confession doesn’t go unnoticed.

Thankfully, over the next few minutes, Shiro lets the topic shift to something more amicable. They talk about his newest project, the one Allura is helping him on, and Keith fills Shiro in on the date of the competition. As per protocol, their time slots aren’t given until at least the week before, which means he should be receiving an email about it any day.

“I don’t know if we’re _ready_ exactly,” Keith explains, draining the last of his coffee. “But rehearsal today was actually pretty solid, so who knows. We might have a chance.”

“You know I’ll be there,” Shiro grins, and Keith feels a swell of eager anticipation grow at the center of his chest, something he hasn’t felt in a long, long time. In fact, for the first time since… since back then, everything is starting to feel right again, like he’s been given a second chance at a lot of things he’d written off. Piano, relationships, happiness, excitement.

And maybe that’s why, when he glances out of the cafe window, when he sees Pidge talking frantically into her phone, he can already tell what it’s about. When he catches sight of her eyes, wide with panic, her mouth pulling into a tight line as she hangs up, he just knows. Everything slows to a single point, his whole body going cold.

He’d been waiting, after all. For the other shoe to drop.

“Pidge!” He shouts suddenly, scrambling from his chair before he even registers the decision to do so. He hears Shiro call out from behind him, hears the sound of something clattering to the floor, and oh. He must have yelled at her from inside. She’s frozen in front of the café in shock, looking around as if unsure where the outburst had come from, and he leaves a commotion behind him in his wake as he rushes outside. But when Pidge sees him, when her eyes lock on his and fall just shy of something like relief and worry and desperation, there’s no denying it. 

“Pidge,” he says again, voice tight, cracking. “What happened? Is he alright?”

She runs up to meet him, a little out of breath, though it seems to be more from emotional than physical strain. He understands; Keith’s own heart is beating in double time. He’s having a hard time breathing at all.

What she says isn’t necessarily surprising, hell he can barely even hear her over the ringing in his ears, but it still wracks through him with incomprehensible panic.

“Lance collapsed,” she chokes out, voice strained and edged with her own worry. She looks scared, yes, but also frustrated, like her mind can’t seem to process whatever information she heard on the phone quick enough. “When he- When they got to Hunk’s dorm, he just- he got all dizzy apparently and blacked out? I don’t… Hunk didn’t give me too many details, they wouldn’t let him stay on the phone, but he couldn’t get Lance to wake up this time. He called an ambulance and they’re taking him to the hospital now.”

Keith’s pretty sure he’s not breathing, his heart thumping in his ears like a bass drum, drowning out anything else she says. “Does this… Does this happen often?” His voice sounds alien and distant, like he’s listening to it out of a recording or from another room entirely. When Pidge shakes her head, that look of frustration bleeds out, replaced once again with the panic Keith saw from the café.

“He’s passed out for a few seconds before, but never actually collapsed. Not like- Not like this.”

“Which hospital?” A voice appears behind them both, calming and familiar. It makes Keith feel like a kid again, but as much as that would normally frustrate him, right now it just seems like safety, like a life vest. Keith turns to look at him, knowing his face betrays everything he can’t quite process feeling. He couldn’t hold back this feeling if he tried; he’s pretty sure he’s never been so terrified in his life.

Pidge tells him the hospital before Keith can even manage to force his mouth to move, and when it does, all he can get out is a soft, broken, “Shiro?”

Shiro looks at him, places a hand on Keith’s shoulder warm and grounding, and the understanding there is immeasurable. “I’ll go get the car.”

.x.X.x.

It’s a twenty minute ride by bus, but Shiro’s driving should get them there in just over ten.

The trip is a quiet one, a tension hanging thick and heavy across their shoulders, deep into their stomachs. Despite how his mind races and tosses about worst case scenarios, Keith can’t seem to do more than grind his teeth together and stare resolutely out of the window, too rattled to even search for a distraction. Which is why, when Pidge speaks, he nearly startles at the sound.

“He was at a checkup earlier,” she says, without pretext. When Keith turns to look at her, confused, she’s got her eyes fixed on her lap, thumbs brushing along the blank screen of her phone. Her brows are sharply furrowed, eyes narrowed behind her glasses. Before Keith can ask what she’s talking about, those eyes flicker over to him for a moment and she explains. 

“That’s why we were late to your rehearsal. The doctor recommended that he stay, but Lance refused. He didn’t… He didn’t want to miss another rehearsal so close to the competition. He told them he’d check himself in after if he felt any worse. Dumbass.” The insult comes out sounding almost like a term of endearment, Pidge’s voice cracking a bit at the end. She looks back down at her lap, presumably done.

The doctors had wanted him to stay in the hospital, and Lance had refused. He’d refused so he could come practice with Keith instead. The thought that Lance is being carted to the ER in an ambulance, possibly still unconscious or worse, and it’s all because of him? It’s a realization that sits bitter and painfully reminiscent low in his gut. Before he can voice that guilt out loud, however, Pidge clicks her tongue at him.

“It’s not your fault,” she says, even though he doesn’t believe her. But then, she adds, “If anything, it’s Hunk’s and mine for letting him go. We could have convinced him to stay, we have before, but he… I don’t know. I guess I didn’t want to stop him, and I don’t think Hunk did either. It’s been a while since Lance has had something else to focus on, something that makes him this happy.” A pause, and then she’s looking back at him, fully this time. “I’m talking about you, by the way.”

Despite the graveness of the situation, and despite how worried and strung out he still feels, those words warm him from the inside out, lingering in a soft blush across his cheeks that he’s sure Pidge doesn’t miss. He doesn’t even know what he can begin to say to that. Thank you? I’m sorry? What comes out is substantially more embarrassing.

“I love him.”

Instead of surprise, or worse, disgust, Pidge merely huffs out a laugh, a soft breath of sound through her nose. “Yeah, we know. You’re not exactly subtle.”

Keith’s pretty sure his face has taken on every possible shade of red. “O-Oh.” And then a thought occurs. “Does Lance-?”

“He’s been in love with you for a long time.”

At that, Keith can’t help but snap his gaze in her direction, eyes wide. He’d meant to ask if Lance knew. If he looked in Keith’s eyes and saw all the love simmering not so secretly underneath. He hadn’t been expecting that.

He also isn’t expecting the look of thinly veiled horror on Pidge’s face.

“Don’t… Don’t tell him I told you that, okay? It was, um,” she sputters, looking resolutely back at her phone, unlocking the screen and pulling open an app with impressive speed. “He was supposed to tell you that, not me.” She looks very near to combusting.

“I won’t,” Keith says after a moment, quiet and stunned. And happy. So, so happy.

Which is terrifying. Because it doesn’t make the fact that they’re driving to the hospital any less serious. In fact, if anything, it makes the weight of it all that much heavier, that much more possibly devastating.

It’s becoming startling obvious just how much it would hurt, actually. If anything happened to Lance.

By the time they get to the hospital, Keith’s nerves have wound themselves so tight that he practically jumps from the car the moment it’s parked. In fact, it takes Pidge shouting at his back for him to realize he’s all but sprinting for the entrance. As much as it pains him, he slows down, waits for Shiro and Pidge to catch up, before going inside.

Turns out it’s a good thing he does, considering the way Pidge marches up to the reception desk and determinedly holds an ID card out for the woman to take.

“Katie Holt?” The woman reads, sliding the card into a panel on the side of her computer. Keith glances at Pidge, confusion probably written all over his face. A confusion which morphs into stunned surprise as Pidge continues.

“My father is Dr. Samuel Holt in Cardiology,” Pidge offers in lieu of waiting for the computer to load her information. “I should already be in the system, but I need two visitor’s badges for my friends.”

“I’m afraid the system has your father down as occupied with emergency patient procedures,” the woman frowns, and if not for Shiro’s hand on his arm, Keith’s pretty sure he’d have jumped over the desk to shake her. He has no idea what his face looks like right now, but judging by the way the woman’s eyes widen slightly when they pass over it, he’s pretty sure it’s anything but calm. “I doubt he’ll be-” she tries to add, but Pidge cuts her off adamantly.

“Check the system,” she demands. “There should be passes set aside for the three of us. Trust me, he knew we were coming the moment he received the patient. We… We know him. His name is Lance McClain.”

At the sound of Lance’s name, Keith’s heart jumps, part from that now familiar bloom of warmth, but mostly from the cold chill of pure terror that settles in behind his ribs.

_Lance. My Lance. Please just let me see him._

The receptionist’s fingers fly across her keyboard, the rapid-fire taps and interspersed clicks of her mouse nearly grating the longer they fill the tense silence. Until finally, she pushes a button on a machine in front of them and out print two stickers, one with Pidge’s face on it and the name Katie Hold beneath, the other with the word **VISITOR** written across it in bold, capitol letters.

“This says your father has allowed access for you and one other visitor for the time being,” she says, voice broking no argument. Keith glances over his shoulder at Shiro, his touch still a warm weight against his arm. Out of his periphery, Keith can see Pidge open her mouth to complain, but Shiro beats her to it.

“You guys go,” he says, eyes soft and smile comforting. He lets go of Keith’s arm. “I’ll wait down here in case Lance’s status opens up for more visitors.”

“Shiro…” Keith doesn’t know if he wants to thank him or whine about having to leave him behind, but either way, Shiro motions towards the elevator and Keith finds himself following Pidge as if on autopilot.

Before the doors close, Keith catches a glimpse of Shiro taking a seat at the café next to reception. He knows it’s irrational, but it makes him feel better just knowing that Shiro is somewhere in the building. Like he’s not doing this alone.

Speaking of, Keith can’t help glancing at Pidge as the elevator slowly takes them a couple of floors up. Katie Holt, the receptionist had said. He’d never assumed Pidge would be her real name, but it’s still a shock. He wouldn’t have pegged her as a Katie. And her father? Keith wonders briefly if he might have seen the man the in the Cardiology Ward the last time he was here.

“My father’s been Lance’s doctor for the past nine years,” Pidge says suddenly. It’s probably just to break the heavy silence, but that doesn’t diminish the way it makes Keith feels like she was reading his mind. “We may have met Hunk in string ensemble at Garrison Prep, but Lance and I met here. I would see him all the time when I came to visit my dad, or when I’d bug Matt on my days off during his clinical training. Lance was nine. I was seven. And despite his condition, he was still annoying and cocky and loud and he just… He latches on to you, you know?”

Keith wants to say, _Yeah. I know. God, do I know. I’ve never known something so profoundly in my life._ But all that comes out is a tight scoff and a wobbly nod of his head. Thankfully, Pidge doesn’t comment. She does, however, reach over and grab Keith’s hand, the touch unexpected, but not unwelcome.

“He’s gonna be okay,” she says. And regardless of whether or not she’s trying to convince Keith or herself, Keith squeezes her hand and nods.

“Yeah.”

The elevator pings, the door opens, and the two of them drop their hands. Keith follows Pidge out into the hall and down towards Cardiology, shouting for her dad the moment she reaches the main reception area. A nurse gets to her feet instantly, almost as if expecting the outburst. Or at the very least, anticipating the arrival of two frantic looking teenagers.

“Katie,” she grabs Pidges attention at once, ushering them over. “Dr. Holt is with Lance in room 410. He arrived twenty minutes ago already conscious.”

A wave of dizzying relief crashes over Keith, so fierce it nearly knocks him off his feet. It’s a sensation akin to whiplash, and it leaves him feeling a little bit like he wants to cry.

“Is he okay?” he still manages to choke out, the nurse’s attention jumping over to him in slight surprise, as if she hadn’t expected him to speak. Keith’s voice sounds hoarse, a little wet, and something on his face must give him away, because when she speaks, her voice sounds filled with overused comfort and pity.

“He’s stable,” she smiles, and that’s all Keith bothers to hear, barely allowing Pidge to ask if they can see him before he’s heading down the hall to room 410. 

In fact, in his haste, he nearly collides bodily with a doctor exiting Lance’s room, his frazzled and desperate focus only just cognizant enough to register the nametag as belonging to a Dr. S Holt. The same doctor from Keith’s last impromptu visit. The man startles, fumbling a bit with his clipboard before stepping aside, the determination in Keith’s stride apparently enough to grant him entrance.

Much like before, Lance is propped up in his hospital bed, awake and alert if not a little pale, though this time it seems as though the tubes and wires connected to various points on his body have tripled. Extra IVs, more wires connected to the heart monitor, it seems, even a tube looped around his cheeks and into his nose, helping him breathe. Only once has Keith ever seen something like it in person; his first foster family was visited by an old relative, a man in his eighties who carted his oxygen tank around everywhere he went. Something about the comparison makes Keith feel cold and nervous.

It takes barely a second for Lance to notice Keith’s frantic arrival, their gazes locking instantly. For a split second, Lance’s eyes widen, stunned, but then they quickly soften, a hint of amusement lingering around the edges. That itch at the back of Keith’s eyes, that burning in the corners, returns full force.

“Hey, buddy,” Lance smiles at him, his voice a little hoarse, and before Keith really registers what he’s doing, he’s striding purposely up to Lance’s bed and all but collapsing next to him. His hands find purchase in the sheets around Lance’s waist, his face burrowed in the dip of Lance’s lap, and he clings. He clings because he doesn’t know what else to do, clings because he can’t form words, can’t form reasons, can’t understand much beyond _stay right here, stay where I can see you, reach you, touch you, like this, right here, don’t you go, you hear me?_

He doesn’t notice just how much he’s shaking until Lance’s hands come to rest gently against his back, thumbs tracing slow circles against the curve of his spine.

“It’s okay, Keith,” Lance whispers, and his voice is so soothing, a bright tenor that crawls into Keith’s ears and chest, warm as honey. He sounds tired and his throat sounds scratchy, but it’s perfect, because it’s here. It exists. Keith can still hear it. “It’s okay,” he says again. “I’m alright.” Then, after they both seem to realize Keith is beyond capable of moving, Lance asks in half seriousness, “Hey now. What’s got you so worried all of a sudden, huh?”

A sound huffs past Keith’s lips, much like a scoff but wetter, and muffled by the fabric surrounding his face. What’s got him so worried, Lance asks. How is he even supposed to respond to that?

 _I didn’t know if you were alright,_ he could say. _I didn’t know if you and Hunk had made it here in time._

 _I didn’t know if our rehearsal today was the last time I’d ever get to see you_ , he could probably say too. That one is more painful, though, remnants of terror still oozing down the back of his throat. It reminds him too much of his parents, of distracted hugs and half-heard goodbyes, of spending days trying to remember exactly what they’d said, what they’d looked like, trying to piece together a final memory. 

Keith doesn’t even remember what shirt Lance was wearing earlier.

There are so many things he could say, so many reasons he could give.

 _I didn’t know if I’d ever get to play with you again. I didn’t know if I’d ever have the chance to argue with you again. I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to touch you again, to kiss you again._

_I was so scared that I might have lost you._

_I don’t want to lose you, I cant._

_If that happened, I don’t know what I’d do._

So many things he could say, but what ends up slipping free, what ends up crawling soft and whimpered out of his mouth, is none of them.

“I love you.”

Keith feels Lance go tense beneath him about a quarter of a second before the words register to his own ears. Whether everything goes legitimately silent or Keith has just been deafened by the sound of all the blood rushing to his face, he’s not sure. Either way, when his brain catches up to his mouth, it’s with a full body tremor, his head snapping up to look at Lance in completely undisguised terror. A terror that’s only marginally lessened by the fact that Lance’s expression is pure shock and not something like disgust. Still, Keith can barely manage to formulate a sentence through his own embarrassment.

“L-Lance, I… Um. That wasn’t… I mean I…” Keith swallows, hands fisting in the sheets one second, only to shakily let go of them the next. “I didn’t-”

“Keith?” Lance’s voice is complicated sounding, high pitched and filled with emotions that Keith is now too frazzled to properly define. When he forces his attention on Lance’s face, it’s much the same, eyes amused but anxious, smile comforting but timid, his whole expression contradictory and difficult to read. Then, Lance runs a hand through his hair with a breathy, nervous laugh. “Keith, um… These are my parents.”

If Keith had to define utter humiliation as one thing, it would be fucking cold.

It feels as though the temperature in the room has suddenly plummeted, Keith’s heart nose-diving into his stomach right along with it. Slowly, as if moving deliberately enough might allow him to somehow stop time, Keith straightens away from his awkward crouch over Lance’s lap ( _he’d been buried in his boyfriend’s lap oh my_ god…) and follows Lance’s gaze to his right.

Sure enough, standing just out of sight of the entrance to the room, is a man and a woman in their mid forties. The man has lighter skin than Lance but the same blue eyes, the same nose. The woman has Lance’s complexion, Lance’s frame, a look of amusement on her face that Keith has seen on Lance’s countless times. Lance’s mom and dad. His parents. 

Keith just told Lance he loved him. For the first time. In front of his _parents_.

_Oh my fucking god._

“I’m so sorry!” Keith blurts much too loudly, though he has no idea why. He also has no idea why he punctuates the apology with a sharp drop of his head, but suddenly he’s looking at his own feet, hands balled into tight fists in his periphery.

“Dude…” Lance’s voice makes him startle. “Are you… _bowing_?”

The full on amusement in Lance’s voice should make Keith feel better, but instead, it just seems to increase his mortifications tenfold. 

“No!” Keith shouts at Lance in misplaced offense as he jerks his head back up. Face frozen in something akin to a frightened scowl, he stands as straight as he can and tries not to be awkward about looking anywhere but at the McClains. He knows he’s failing by the way a brief glance in Lance’s direction shows a poorly contained smirk and the subtle shake of his shoulders.

Lance is laughing at him. Fuck, he must look like a complete _idiot._

“Mom, Dad,” Lance says suddenly, voice still tinged with laughter and eyes still locked on Keith. “This is my boyfriend, the one I was telling you about.” 

Well. Guess he _has_ to look at them now, and when he sees the mischievous look in Mrs. McClain’s eyes, the amused but apologetic expression on Mr. McClain’s face, Keith’s pretty sure he dies. From beyond the grave, he clears his throat, forces out a few words.

“N-Nice to meet you?” he stutters, instantly hating how it comes out sounding like a question. So much for first impressions.

Luckily, Mrs. McClain seems to find his awkwardness endearing, or at the very least entertaining, the woman stepping forward to place a hand on Keith’s shoulder. “It’s good to finally meet you, Keith,” she says, voice warm and lilting with the hint of a Spanish accent, and if the way she smiles at him seems a bit unsettling, Keith can ignore it for the way it also calms some of his nerves.

“We’ve heard a lot about you,” Lance’s father says as he steps forward as well.

And the nerves are back.

“All good things, I hope,” Keith croaks out, because that’s something that people say, right? Like a joke? Even if he seriously _does_ want an answer, actually. Lance talks about him to his parents? What does he say?

Despite his attempt at polite nonchalance, his nervousness must be pretty obvious, Mr. McClain’s expression softening even further. He even reaches out to place a hand on Keith’s head, just barely ruffling his hair. It’s a gesture that reminds him so abruptly and completely of his own father, a distant memory of the Koganes and their hugs, their touches, their gentle affection, that Keith feels his heart ache.

“All good things,” Mr. McClain chuckles softly, clapping Keith once on the arm before dropping his hand. “How about we give the boys their privacy, hm?” He’s still looking at Keith when he says this, but it’s obvious he’s talking to his wife. A fact made even more apparent when she huffs out a disappointed breath. When Keith glances at her, she’s frowning at him, hands on her hips.

“I don’t get to torment him even a little bit?”

“Mama!” Lance squeaks, and when Keith looks over at him in surprise, his face is flushed red. Initially, Keith knows he should be embarrassed right along with him, but seeing color settled so vibrantly in Lance’s cheeks just makes him smile instead, involuntarily relieved.

Again, Mrs. McClain sighs, snagging Keith’s attention back to her. The look on her face tells him she’d seen. Keith’s own face heats.

“Fine,” she says to him. “But you and I are going to have a talk sometime about your intentions with my son.”

Keith feels something akin to fear prickle at the back of his neck, his spine straightening under her scrutiny. “I don’t-!”

“Anita,” Mr. McClain walks up behind her, wrapping an arm around her waist and leading her away. Keith can hear Lance murmur a pained, “ _Oh my god..._ ” into his hands.

“Alright, alright, I’m going,” Mrs. McClain huffs, though it sounds mostly feigned at this point. She even places a hand on Keith’s arm as she passes, her renewed smile warm and genuine. “My son is very lucky to have you, Keith. We’ll talk soon, hm?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Keith nods, a bit too vigorously if her laugh is anything to go by.

Thankfully, with one last nod from Mr. McClain, Lance’s parents leave the room, a silence both awkward and relieving settling in their absence.

Lance breaks it first.

“I can’t believe that just happened,” he groans, and Keith bristles, instantly defensive.

“Why didn’t you warn me?” He nearly yells, heart stuttering against his rib cage at the fresh and still utterly humiliating memory.

“When?” Lance balks. “It’s not like you gave me much of a chance, dude! I mean, I didn’t realize you were just gonna… You know…” His face is still adorably pink from the tips of his ears down to his neck, and gradually but fiercely, the foundation of their situation begins to sink back in. 

Stomping down as much embarrassment as he can, Keith swallows, clears his throat. When the words make it out into open air, they sound gratifyingly steady. Still doesn’t mean he can look at Lance as he says them though. “I couldn’t help it. I saw that you were okay and the words just… came out.”

All of a sudden, a hand is wrapping loosely around his wrist, pulling him in, and Keith follows, still looking away. Lance’s fingers intertwine with his own, settling their joined hands on the edge of his bed. It takes the feel of Lance’s thumb softly tracing the bumps of his knuckles for Keith to finally force his attention back to where it should be. The expression on Lance’s face is warm, filled with something akin to fondness or awe.

“You mean it?” He asks, pulling Keith in just a bit closer and forcing him to lean in. The hand not tangled up in Lance’s grip settles itself on the opposite side of Lance’s head, effectively caging him in.

“Of course I mean it,” Keith huffs, a little defensive. “What sort of question is-?”

The feel of Lance raising himself up, brushing his lips sweetly over Keith’s in a chaste but intimate kiss, successfully cuts Keith off. When Lance lets himself lower back into the pillows, Keith follows him, kissing him once, twice more, before pulling back. Lance is smiling, cheeks red.

“I love you too,” Lance says, squeezing their hands ever tighter. The words settle like a blanket over Keith’s shoulders, loosening the tension there that he hadn’t even been aware he was carrying. “Me being ‘okay’ might be a bit relative though…”

The phrase is half muttered and feels disjointed, but before Keith has a chance to ask Lance what he means, the door to Lance’s room opens, Pidge and Hunk scrambling inside. Keith gets the distinct impression they’ve been waiting outside the door for a while now, guilt and embarrassment rising steadily along the back of his neck. He carefully removes himself from his precarious position over Lance and takes a step back.

“Hey buddy,” Hunk smiles at Lance as he enters. “You feeling a little better?”

“Better than unconscious on the floor of your dorm room, definitely,” Lance grins. “Thanks, man.”

“Anytime,” Hunk smirks, crossing his arms over his chest. “Just don’t do that again, alright? You almost gave me a… Well, you freaked me out, dude.”

“I know, I know! I’m sorry,” Lance laughs, waving his hand dismissively, even though Keith is certain it’s hardly something he should be dismissing. “Hopefully after next week, you won’t have to worry.”

The comment rings as something Keith’s blatantly missing, something very important. So he chimes in quickly with a curious, “Next week?”

Pidge and Hunk share a look before Pidge walks up to Lance’s bedside and stares down at him in stern disappointment. “You haven’t told him yet?”

Surprisingly enough (though perhaps Keith should be used to Pidge’s effect on people by now) Lance cowers a bit beneath the scolding attention. “I was getting there! We got a little… distracted.”

Pidge recoils some, blurting out a tight lipped, “Ew,” at the same time that Hunk mumbles, “Dude, gross,” into the following silence.

Keith feels his face heat at the same time that he watches color settle in red splotches along Lance’s cheeks.

“Not like that!” Lance puts his hands up defensively, and Keith notices that they’re just slightly trembling. “We were just… Um.”

“Will somebody please tell me what’s going on?” Keith interrupts, partially to save Lance, but mostly just because not being privy to whatever information everyone else seems to know is starting to get on his nerves.

Another silent and cryptic look is passed between Hunk, Pidge, and Lance before Lance sighs in defeat, an apologetic smile worming onto his face.

“So… I have some good news and some bad news.”

Turns out, the good news is thus: Because of a sudden opening in the donor list, Lance’s transplant is set to happen sooner rather than latter.

The bad news: Sooner is apparently another way of saying he’ll be missing the competition.

Not that it matters, Keith tells himself. Lance’s surgery is far, _far_ more important. There will be other competitions they can compete in once Lance is better, a point he vehemently tries to tell Lance when the boy attempts to convince Keith to compete anyway.

“It’s not a big deal,” Keith sighs. “I was only really looking forward to it as a chance to play with you again.”

“But you could totally kill it by yourself too,” Lance argues. “You know that!”

“Lance…” Keith groans, anxiety growing at the thought. “Wouldn’t you rather I be here when you go into surgery? Or when you get out?”

“No,” Lance frowns, and Keith’s heart drops into his stomach, a cold chill running down his spine. Lance seems to notice quickly enough, though, reaching out to grab Keith’s hand again. “I don’t mean… Of course, I want you here. I’d love nothing more than to have your face be the first thing I see when I wake up. But I-” He closes his eyes, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment, before looking back at Keith’s face with renewed purpose. “Knowing that you’re competing again, knowing that we’re both overcoming something together… I feel like that would give me strength.” And then, as if he wasn’t already wearing on Keith’s last bit of resolve, he adds, “It would really mean a lot to me.”

And Keith caves. Of course he does.

“God dammit,” Keith mumbles, letting his head fall at the same time that he raises Lance’s hand to his face, softly kissing each knuckle in turn as he tries to process what he’s about to commit to. “Alright, Lance. You win. I’ll… I’ll do it.”

There’s no yelp of triumph, no hoot or hollering in the face of his success, nothing Keith is expecting. Instead, when Keith looks up, captures Lance’s gaze, his smiling expression is filled with something akin to relief.

“Thank you,” he says, voice thick with so much gratitude, Keith can’t find it in himself to regret his decision.

.x.X.x.

Their visit doesn’t last as long as Keith would have liked, just long enough for everyone to wish Lance well and for Shiro to pop in for a quick hello. Everyone hitches a ride back to campus in Shiro’s car, oddly uplifted if not a bit emotionally drained.

Shiro makes Keith swear to keep him posted on Lance’s condition as well as the official competition time. Having Shiro there doesn’t exactly put his heart at ease, but it does allow him a hint of comfort he knows he desperately needs.

Without Lance there to distract him, he’s afraid it’ll be like last time all over again. Without Lance’s vibrant aura, his brilliant playing over top, it’ll just be Keith, a piano, and that damned ballade, so irrevocably linked to bad memories that even the thought of playing it alone makes him queasy.

But Lance had asked him to. Lance had told him it would give him strength. So what else could he do?

That night, as he stares at his ceiling and continues to fail at sleep, his mind races over problem measures in the piece, tapping his fingers against his thigh in an unconscious attempt to solidify fingering.

It’s around one in the morning, when his mind finally starts to drift, that his phone decides to buzz. An email notification, it turns out. Still a bit wired, Keith opts for checking it out now, deleting any spam that might have accumulated over the day while he’s at it.

He doesn’t get that far.

The email turns out to be from the artistic committee running the competition. It proudly proclaims their slot for three pm four days from now. Keith feels his pulse jump into a probably unhealthy sprint, fingers ghosting over familiar buttons on his screen until he’s pulled up his most recent text from Lance.

There, solidified in a grey text bubble, is an official date and time for his surgery.

Four days from now. At three pm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another quick couple of video reminders in regards to the upcoming competition:
> 
> This is the Chopin Ballade in all it's classic, solo piano glory:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ce8p0VcTbuA
> 
> But if you want a taste of what Lance's playing sounded like on top, jump to 4:29 and enjoy:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bahdBTYEXLk
> 
> (For those of you who joined me in this fic partially because of Your Lie in April, y'all know what I'm talkin' about *winky face*)
> 
> Thanks for reading!!


	8. Eighth Movement: Melody

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **_Melody:_** a series of single notes which add up to a recognizable whole. Usually a tune that lends itself to singing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a hell of a ride, guys. Thanks for coming with me.

“I don’t think I can do it.”

“Keith. Babe. You’re gonna be fine.”

Placing an elbow directly on the keys, something he would never normally do considering how bad it is for the piano, Keith hangs his head in premeditated defeat. From the angle of his phone (camera on for a quick Face Time during rehearsal) Lance must be able to see what he’s doing, because a loud sigh can be heard no more than a second after the melodramatic display.

“All you’re doing is stressing yourself out,” Lance’s voice echoes from the small iPhone speaker, a bit tinny but otherwise pretty high quality. Not quite like he’s there in person, but close enough.

That’s a lie. It’s not close enough at all. Not even a little.

“I just wish you were here,” Keith mumbles, mostly to himself, though he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t easier to be honest with Lance when they were separated by a smartphone screen and just under ten miles of distance. Like being forward and blunt about what’s going through his head won’t have any consequences. Not that that’s stopped him from keeping the more important things to himself. Like how scared he is. Of everything.

And not just the competition, though that’s certainly panic inducing if he thinks about it too long. Sure, he’s scared of performing by himself again, of being back on that stage, playing that song again, but it’s more than that. Reliving the worst moment in his life is slowly starting to become something he can handle. Handle in the loosest sense of the word, of course, but handle nonetheless.

Possibly losing Lance, however, he irrefutably cannot.

Somewhere along the line, it’s become less about competing, or even competing alone, and more about not being there for Lance. It was a promise Keith made, and he intends to keep it, but as the date of Lance’s surgery draws closer, it becomes harder and harder to accept that he’ll be anywhere else but at Lance’s side.

And he _should_ be there, shouldn’t he? Not just as Lance’s boyfriend, not just as moral support, but-

But just in case. Just in case it’s the last chance he ever gets to-

“You alright there, space cadet?”

Keith startles out of his thoughts and forces himself to sit up straight, put a more composed expression on his face. The last thing he wants is to go spiraling down this path with Lance playing involuntary audience to it.

“Yeah,” Keith chokes out, clearing his throat. “Yeah. I’m good. Just worried.”

 _About you, about what you’re going through, about not being there for you when you need me most_ , he doesn’t say. Instead, when Lance gives him a look, tells him he has the competition in the bag, he nods and smiles, forcing himself not to feel so torn. 

“I wish I was there too, you know,” Lance says all of a sudden, his voice soft. Keith glances at the screen of his phone, wishing it were bigger so he could see more than just a portion of Lance’s face and neck. 

“I know,” Keith mumbles in return, followed by a painful and trite, “I should probably get to class.”

“Oh yeah,” Lance clears his throat, leaning away from his phone a bit, settling into the pillows of his hospital bed. “I forgot. Um. Call me after theory, yeah? Let me know what I need to study so I’m ready to kick your ass next quiz.” 

“Sure,” Keith huffs, the ghost of a smirk lining his lips more out of habit than any actual desire. Especially when his first thought is how neither Lance nor he has any idea when he’ll be back to school. If ever. “Not that you stand a chance.”

“Hey now. We were neck and neck when I left. I’ll surpass you yet.”

The back and forth is so normal, so them, that Keith feels his chest clench with a mix of relief and heartache. Still, he keeps his voice even as he rolls his eyes and says, “Dream on, McClain.” And then, more fond. “Love you. Call you again later.”

“Love you too, Mullet,” Lance replies, voice filled with a tenderness that strikes Keith right between the ribs. If it’s possible to feel over the moon and buried alive in the same breath, he achieves it in that moment.

The call disconnects and Keith suddenly feels every inch of empty space in the small, cluttered practice room.

.x.X.x.

When Keith attempts to visit Lance after school that day, he’s turned away. Something about necessary tests before surgery. He doesn’t question, not outwardly at least, and his anxious concern eats away at his insides every mile of the bus ride home.

.x.X.x.

 _That’s normal for a major surgery_ , Shiro says when Keith’s anxiety coerces him into a phone call later that night. _They have to make sure he’s ready._

 _He’ll probably be free before class tomorrow,_ Pidge offers when she passes him in the music department hallway the day after. _His slot isn’t till a little ways into visiting hours. You could stop by before they wheel him in for prep._

 _This isn’t his first rodeo, buddy,_ Hunk says when Keith texts him afterwards, too afraid to call Lance, not sure where he is or what they have him doing the night before his transplant. _He’ll be alright. Don’t worry._

Then a few minutes of silence before the speech bubble filled with a blinking ellipses pops back up. 

_You should stop in for a bit tomorrow, though. Before the competition. I think it would mean a lot to him._

That went without saying. Keith would be there right now if he could.

Still, Keith can’t help but glance at his desk, the sheet music stacked haphazardly atop it, and think, not for the first time, that he should just forget about the competition entirely. Lance needs him more than his shattered competitive spirit needs an ego boost. He should just-

His phone beeps, the soft, electric whistle of BB-8 that Lance had programed as his personal text tone. They’d texted here and there over the last few days, but never this late. It makes Keith instantly nervous. Not because he thinks something’s wrong. More so because he knows Lance almost well as he knows himself at this point.

Lance is probably scared.

Keith picks up his phone and swipes across the screen, his heart dropping.

Lance is probably terrified.

**how long do you think someone can live without their heart?**

Keith’s mind practically derails, thoughts spiraling in a million different directions, each more negative than the last. Was his surgery cancelled? Did he have a heart attack? Is he going to be okay? What were the charges for breaking into a hospital after one am? 

Before Keith has the chance to decide on a response, his phone beeps again.

 **because i gave u mine a while back and wanted to see how much time i had left**

Keith nearly drops his phone. Then he nearly hurls it at the wall. Eventually, though, he just clutches it tightly, a choked laugh escaping through clenched teeth. As if sensing the atmosphere all the way from the hospital, Lance texts him again. Twice, in rapid succession.

**too soon to joke about it? patch adams usually doesn’t steer me wrong…**

**that probably wasnt very funny though was it**

Keith breathes out through his nose, rubbing his eyes for a moment before working up the will to respond without tearing Lance’s head off. He eventually decides on a curt, _No. It wasn’t._

Almost instantaneously, Lance replies with his own brief, **sorry**

 _It’s okay_ , he types back quickly. Even though it isn’t. None of this is. _Want me to call you?_

The reply comes after enough of a pause that Keith starts to wonder if he fell asleep. But eventually, his phone pings and Lance’s words bubble to life on the screen.

**theyve been in for virals and stuff every few hours… theyll probably just tell me to get off my phone so**

And then, after another moment of painful stretched silence, **you should get some sleep anyway, the competition is tomorrow**

The words are halfway typed out before Keith stops himself. Fuck the competition, he wants to say. That’s not what’s important. _You’re_ what’s important. Nothing else. No one else. So just-

_I’ll come by and see you before, he types out instead. As soon as visiting hours start. So I have enough time to see you off and get back to the competition hall._

Because he told Lance he would. Because for some reason, that seemed really important to him.

The ellipses that say Lance is typing blip in and out for a long time, until eventually Lance settles on a text. **just promise me u wont skip the competition on my account alright?**

Keith doesn’t hesitate, sending back a concise and final, _Alright. Promise. I love you_ , before locking his phone and closing his eyes.

For some reason, it feels like failure.

.x.X.x.

To save time, Keith goes to the hospital in his suit. As if to add insult to injury, it fits a little snug; he hasn’t worn it since- Well. Since last time. Shiro would probably tease him, victim of the freshman fifteen, not working out enough. But Keith knows the problem has probably been the opposite. Over the last few months, the gym has seen more of him than some of his teachers have. Every moment he hadn’t been with Lance, in fact. It’s his best and only foolproof method of distraction.

He’s visited enough since Lance’s long term admittance that the receptionists in the Cardiology Ward smile at him as he passes. Dr. Holt waves to him from down the hall. Their friendless should be a comfort, but it just feels stifling, not exactly fake but maybe pitying. Like they’re trying to put him at ease, calm him with expressions like morphine to the aching mind.

When he closes the door between them and the rest of the hospital, it feels like sealing Lance and him away in a bubble, time paused to give them both a chance to breathe. Finite, yes, but revitalizing. At the sound of the click, Lance glances over at him, lips tugging up in a small but genuine smile. And then dipping on one side into a rather devious looking smirk.

“Hellooooo, nurse,” he says with a blatant waggle of his eyebrows. Keith raises one of his own, not quite sure how to take that besides with the obvious.

“I’m not a nurse,” he says, and Lance’s attempt at a seductive expression falters briefly before falling completely, replaced by something exasperated, but maybe just a little bit fond.

“Sometimes I wonder why I love you,” Lance shakes his head, grabbing his phone from where he’d rested it in his lap, scrolling absently through whatever Keith had interrupted.

“I wonder the same thing daily,” Keith says, no hint of actual malice in his voice, as he places his bag by the door. He walks up to the side of Lance’s bed without further prompting and takes a seat at the edge, glancing over the top of the phone to take a glimpse at the screen. “Whatcha doing?”

“Texting my family,” he says, thumbs flying quickly over the keypad. As Keith watches, multiple text bubbles pop up. Some of them have Mama or Pops written underneath, but most are attached to names he’s unfamiliar with. Lance must notice his confusion, his thumb pausing mid sentence to exit out of the app and pull up a picture from his photo album. It’s a family photo of nearly twenty people. Keith can’t help the wide-eyed look of surprise that creeps across his face. Lance chuckles, pointing to each member of his family as he explains. 

“This is my sister Eva and her fiancé Marco, my cousin Ivan and his wife Jo, and my brothers Emilio and Juan-Carlos. He wants us to call him JC now that he’s in high school, but everyone still calls him Juankie.” Here, Lance pauses, a soft smile on his face that Keith has never seen before. Then he sniffs, exits out of his photo album, and pulls the text app back up, glancing at Keith with a more familiar grin. “We have a group chat.”

“I didn’t realize you have such a big family,” Keith says without thinking, astounded and maybe just a little bit hallow. Because Lance talks about his family all the time, sure, but he’d never _known_. And he wants to know everything, as much as he can, wants to learn a little more every day for the rest of their lives. Keith’s chest clenches. Lance doesn’t seem to notice, continuing on as his thumbs pick back up in their furious typing. In the short time between apps, he’s gotten over twenty messages.

“Dude, I’m Cuban,” he chuckles, hitting send on his most recent text and then dropping his phone back into his lap. “Family reunions are insane.”

“I can’t even imagine,” Keith says, perfectly sincere, because he genuinely can’t. Outside of Shiro, his families have always been small and temporary, liminal. He tries to picture it, relatives and siblings and parents all gathered together, so much love and familiarity packed into one place. He imagines himself surrounded by the people from that picture, Lance at his side, imagines the feel of unfamiliar hugs and touches and smiles slowly becoming precious and permanent and his. Theirs. Then he promptly stops imagining it. “What were you guys talking about?” 

Keith doesn’t miss the way Lance frowns for a second before schooling his features into something poorly resembling indifference. “Oh, you know,” he waves a hand by his face dismissively. “Who’s coming to see me and who’s not. Mom and pops will be here, obviously, and Emilio will probably stop by when he gets out of school, but Juankie’s got a make up test so he won’t make it till after. Eva and Marco live outta state, but they apparently flew in? My parents just went to pick them up. And now Ivan is saying Jo and him are gonna drive up too, but I don’t wanna put anyone out, you know? I mean, it’s not like this is my first major surgery. It shouldn’t be as big of a deal as everyone is making it.”

Something in Keith tugs sharply behind his ribcage and the words spill out before he can stop them. “But it is a big deal!” He practically feels Lance’s wince like a chiding slap to the back of the head, his heart dropping when Lance looks away from him, eyes glued to the window. “I just mean…” Keith tries, but the room suddenly feels stifling, thick with a tension he hadn’t meant to bring in. Sometimes he just doesn’t know when to shut up. “It sounds like everyone wants to support you. Don’t you think you should let them?”

Though it’s probably only a minute or so, it feels like a painfully long time before Lance finally drags his gaze from the window back to Keith’s face. “I know,” he says, voice serious and strained, like it’s something he’s thought about a lot. “I get that. It’s just… Having everyone here like that. It makes it feel like…” His words trail off, his brows falling, face softening into an expression so vulnerable and scared that Keith can’t stop the way his hand reaches up to cup his cheek, the way his thumb traces the spot beneath his eye. Lance closes his eyes, nuzzling into the touch.

For the umpteenth time, Keith is overwhelmed by the desire to just forget about the competition and stay. It’s a want so fierce, he has to physically swallow down the need to say it out loud, knowing Lance will simply argue against it, beg him to keep his promise even. And more than staying, more than being by his side through every second of this, all Keith wants is to give Lance whatever he asks. If that’s the moral support of being at a stupid competition, then he’ll do it.

So, instead of giving in to his own fear, his own fierce desires, Keith just leans in and gently places his lips against Lance’s.

Lance kisses him back without hesitation, deep and intimate, light brushes of lips and tongue. It’s the sort of kiss that’s easy to sink into, natural as breathing, and when Keith pulls away, the vulnerable look on Lance’s face is replaced with one of contentment, a pleased smile on kiss-full lips and an adorable flush across his cheeks. Keith swears he’s never seen anything more beautiful.

As if the kiss itself had been a change in topic, Lance licks his lips and pulls away from Keith’s hand, his normal vibrancy brightening tenfold as he grins, reaching towards Keith’s jacket. “You clean up nice, by the way,” he says, running thumb and forefinger along the lapel. Beyond the soft tug at his collar, Keith can’t even feel it, but the touch makes him shiver nonetheless. “You should wear suits more often.”

The low, suggestive tone of Lance’s voice seeps beneath his skin and settles warm and persistent just below his navel. Keith has to clear his throat before he can speak again.

“I only wear them for competitions,” he ends up saying, voice a bit choked. His face instantly heats, the embarrassment only rising when Lance laughs lightly at him, fingers coming to rest at the nape of his neck, pulling him back in.

“You sure I can’t convince you to wear one _not_ for competitions?” Lance purrs, and Keith feels his stomach drop like the first free fall on a rollercoaster, his whole body going hot.

Which is the exact moment the door chooses to swing open, Dr. Holt and a group of nurses strolling in without warning. Keith jumps, pulling away from Lance’s touch and getting to his feet, as much as the sudden distance almost physically pains him. Lance laughs again, but it’s obvious by the blush on his face that the embarrassment of almost being caught out is shared.

“Welcome back, Keith,” Dr. Holt addresses him first, making Keith feels as though he’s been in and out of Lance’s room more than once already. Keith nods at him, mumbles a quiet hello of his own. As Dr. Holt and the nurses bustle around Lance, checking this and that, pressing buttons and writing on clipboards, Dr. Holt comments offhandedly, “On your way to something important I take it?”

Keith looks down at his suit, imagining he can still feel Lance’s touch against the thick, dark grey fabric. “Piano competition,” he mumbles. As if he’s heard mention of it before, Dr. Holt nods, in no way surprised.

“Well, I wish you the best of luck. Or is that bad luck to say? Should I say break a leg?”

Keith scratches a hand at the back of his neck, shrugging. “Either’s… fine.”

“Break a leg then,” Dr. Holt chuckles, already turning to place his stethoscope against Lance’s chest. When Keith follows the motion up to his face, Lance is smirking at him, barely holding back giggles. Keith glares, but that only makes Lance want to laugh more, apparently. 

Eventually Dr. Holt pulls away, snapping Keith’s attention back to him. “It was nice of you to see Lance off on your way,” he says, and Keith nods, feeling his stomach flip again, not so much in the thrilling, rollercoaster type way, but in a much more sickening, tripping in public kind of way. Dr. Holt doesn’t seem to notice. “Katie says Hunk and she should be here soon. Think you’ll see them before you head out?”

“Probably not,” Keith sighs, pulling his phone out of his pocket to check the time. He still needs to register and solidify his slot, not to mention snag a practice room before they’re all taken. Preferably, if he can get at least thirty more minutes of practice in- Not that it matters. It’s not like he’s even in this to win, really. But old habits die hard. “I probably need to get going actually.”

Despite the way he keeps his eyes on the doctor, Keith can still see Lance’s shoulders slump a bit in his periphery. When Keith glances more fully at him, Lance is smiling, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Break a leg, Piano Man,” Lance says, and his voice is so filled with warmth and fondness that Keith can’t help but smile back, his heart nearly full to bursting.

“Thanks,” he says in lieu of all the other things he wants to say. Like, _Are you sure you’d rather I go to the competition?_ Even though he knows Lance’s answer will be yes. And, _Everything will be alright._ Even though he has no way of knowing that for sure.

Or, _Please let me stay. Please come back to me. Please don’t leave me alone._ Even though he’s always left alone in the end. Every god damn time.

He doesn’t say any of these though, keeping his fears and insecurities to himself. However, he does will himself to say something before he turns away from Lance’s face, his perfect and wonderful and frustratingly beautiful face.

“I love you, okay?” Keith says, reaching out to place a hand on Lance’s ankle, feeling the warmth of him through the thin layer of hospital bed sheets. Lance takes a breath, running a shaking hand through his hair.

“I love you too,” he says, voice sincere if not a bit shaky. “So, um.” Keith pauses just as he’s about to turn toward the door. He watches as Lance reaches beneath his pillow and pulls out an envelope. It’s slightly rumpled and sealed, and Lance holds it tight for a couple of seconds before thrusting it out in Keith’s direction. “I want you to have this.” He looks towards the window again as he says it, brow furrowed and lip just slightly jutting out in the beginnings of a pout. 

Carefully, Keith walks up and pulls the letter out from between Lance’s fingers. It’s got his name on it, written in Lance’s messy scrawl. When Keith risks a quick look in Dr. Holt’s direction, the man just shrugs at him, smiling. So Keith shifts his attention back to the envelope, turning it this way and that in his hands, fingers coming up out of reflex to tear at the seal.

“No, don’t!” Lance practically shouts at him, making not only Keith but the entire room of medical staff startle. Keith jerks his hand away from the envelope as if burned, only a centimeter or so of the corner torn open. When Keith levels a confused look in his boyfriend’s direction, Lance is blushing furiously, gripping at the sheets around his waist and bouncing between staring at Keith and staring at his own hands. “N-Not yet. Don’t… Don’t open it here.” Lance takes a breath, and finally settles his gaze on Keith. “Open it after the competition.”

There’s something weighted about Lance’s expression, a steadfast determination that Keith hasn’t seen in a while, the same look he sometimes gets before his bow hits the strings. There’s nothing on Earth that would make Keith want to say no.

“Sure,” Keith nods, unbuttoning his jacket and placing the envelope in the inside pocket. Out of the corner of his eye, Keith watches Lance smother a sigh of relief, a strange sort of tension leaving his shoulders as Keith buttons his jacket back up. “I, um… I guess I’ll go then.”

Lance nods, smiling again, and suddenly, all at once, Keith feels something slip through his fingers, feels their time running out like a tangible thing. It crashes into him like a wave, drowns him. He doesn’t want to go, never wanted anything less in his life. He doesn’t want that kiss to potentially be their last, doesn’t want Lance to be somewhere he can’t follow, somewhere he can’t protect him, can’t help him. He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want-

“Hey,” Lance’s voice breaks through the panicked mess of his thoughts like a lightening strike splits the darkness, filling the sky with light before everything settles back into calm stillness. When Keith forces himself to meet Lance’s stare, it’s to find him reaching out again, hand open and waiting for Keith to follow. Keith takes a step forward, lets his own hand fall into that firm, warm grasp, and allows himself to be pulled in close, allows himself the small miracle that is Lance’s face tilting up, Lance’s lips waiting for a kiss.

Lance’s thumb traces small circles around his knuckles as Keith kisses him, a soft sigh escaping Lance’s nose to tickle at his cheek. It’s backwards and pitiful, but Keith feels it like the safety and warmth of an old blanket, Lance’s comfort settling over him and soothing the panic in his chest as much as it can. When Lance pulls away, he doesn’t let go of Keith’s hand, giving it a solid squeeze instead.

“I’ll be okay,” Lance says, a confidence in his voice that Keith wants desperately to share. “We’re both going to do our best.” Keith nods, even though it feels stiff and apprehensive. There’s another squeeze of his hand, and then Lance lets go. Before Keith turns away, he watches Lance smile, watches him nod in encouragement, watches him like he’s memorizing him, downloading and storing every detail about him that he can. His Lance. His beautiful, vibrant flash of lightning, slicing open the dark sky with a brilliant burst of color and light.

But the thing about lightning is that it’s fleeting, nothing more than a bright and silent precursor to thunder. The crash is inevitable. It always is.

.x.X.x.

Shiro picks him up from the hospital.

The drive is mostly filled with silence, Shiro’s attempt at breaking it met with one word answers at best. Eventually, he gives up, though not before patting Keith on the leg with a comforting smile.

“You always kick ass at these things. You’ll be fine,” he says. And then, with a brief squeeze to Keith’s knee, he adds, “And as soon as you’re out, I’ll take you back to see him.”

To that, at least, Keith manages a shaky nod and a soft, “Thanks, Shiro.”

The concert hall is bustling by the time he arrives. He recognizes a few people from past competitions, but no one he knows well enough to talk to; the competition was always the priority, so he didn’t exactly come out of them with any new friends. Which means, after Shiro leaves him for the main hall, it’s a silent and solitary trek to registration, and then after that to the practice room one floor up. His phone tells him he has almost an hour before his slot. 

He could have stayed with Lance for longer.

But part of him knows that any more time and he wouldn’t have left, his promise to Lance be damned. It’s probably a good thing he went when he did. Well, good in the loosest, most contradicting sense of the word.

Almost robotically, Keith pulls the sheet music out of his bag. He doesn’t need it anymore, hasn’t needed it for a while, but he opens it up and places it in front of himself nonetheless. The notes barely even look like music, just black dots strung together on off-white paper, his own chicken scratch here and there, between measures, in headers. Except. 

There’s a doodle Lance did in the corner of the page, a stick figure brandishing a violin bow like a sword, another stick figure with an obvious mullet holding an entire piano out in front of himself like a shield. It makes Keith smile, even as he rolls his eyes. 

They’d been arguing about something that rehearsal, something to do with a block of measures in the second movement, but Keith doesn’t even remember what it was anymore. Halfway through a particularly thorough shouting match, Lance had grabbed his music with a huff and sat himself down in the corner, drawing the doodle in lieu of continuing the quarrel. Keith had chosen to watch him draw instead of forcing it back to life, eventually commenting on Lance’s shitty art and the Piano Shield Man’s obvious victory in the battle. This had spawned a new argument, a lighter one, and the rest of the rehearsal had been forgotten.

Keith turns the page, fingers trembling just slightly.

They’re probably wheeling Lance into surgery about now.

Logically, Keith knows there’s nothing he would be able to do for Lance even if he was there, but that doesn’t stop the ache just below his breastbone, like a tether pulling him in that direction. 

As if somehow sensing his thoughts, Keith’s phone vibrates in his pocket. He’s expecting a last minute text from Shiro, maybe, one more offering of luck now that his slot is only minutes away. Instead, what he sees is a text from Pidge. No words, just a picture.

The image is a bit blurry at the edges, as if taken suddenly and possibly without permission. In it, Lance lies back on a stretcher, dressed in stereotypical pre-op attire, obviously on his way into surgery. But what sticks out, what makes a soft sound escape like a wheeze past a sudden tightness in Keith’s throat, are the two finger guns Lance is shooting towards the camera.

It’s ridiculous and childish and so very _Lance_ that Keith can’t help but laugh, a weight lifting from his shoulders, his chest. It’s meant to be reassuring, meant to be silly, Lance’s own offering of luck when he should be thinking about himself, for fuck’s sake. But it’s exactly what Keith needed.

Suddenly, he feels like he can do anything.

A knock on the door startles Keith from his reverie, his thumb swiping out of the message on reflex, as if to keep the picture a secret, keep it to himself. His good luck charm, just like the letter sitting in the inside pocket of his suit jacket, pressed comfortingly against his chest. The competition official leads him down to the backstage entrance just as the musician before him finishes her performance. The crowd applauds politely, and the girl exits the stage. Then, after the judges are given a chance to jot down their notes, the official motions for Keith to take his place.

The walk out on stage is quiet, and for a brief moment, Keith can feel the tell tale signs of panic start to rise at the back of his throat, spreading across his chest in icy hot tendrils. The feeling follows him all the way to the piano, not quite overwhelming him, but steadily inching further and further up his spine even as he adjusts the bench, pops open a button on his jacket, and sits. The motion jostles the letter in his pocket, the reminder of Lance’s presence soothing, if not completely relieving.

Sure. He may be toing the line of panic, he may be inches away from reliving his last moment on this stage, his hands may be already trembling, but he’s not alone this time. With Shiro in the audience and Lance in his pocket, it’s almost easy to lift his wrists, settle his fingers over the keys, and play.

The melody starts off slow, fingers playing single note octaves in a confident progression. There’s no wavering, no nerves, just a calm understanding. Lance expects him to do his best, so Keith plays with every ounce of skill and musicality he possesses. He fills each note with dynamic and grace, adding to Chopin’s markings with a flair and nuance of his own. He makes each movement, each measure, each note, ring out not just with his talent, but with _Lance_.

His appreciation for Lance, his amazement for Lance, his love for Lance. He lets his playing wind into something nearly visible, love incarnate, the sound of a heart reaching, reaching out, searching for its counterpart. It’s in this moment that he can almost hear Lance’s playing alongside his, a phantom sound that’s purely memory, so many practices dedicated to their duet now made solo. But, if he closes his eyes, he can hear him, feel him. For just a moment, Keith imagines he’s actually there, nearly convinces himself that, were he to open his eyes, Lance would be standing only inches away, violin in hand, smiling down at him.

The hardest measures of the piece pass with barely a thought, already so far beyond where he got last time. He’s already rewritten the memory, the pain, the shock. He’s already moving smoothly along into the final pages of the piece, Lance leading him by the hand.

Though he’s known it for a while, it’s no more obvious than in that moment how much he owes Lance. Not just for reminding him of why he plays, why it’s impossible for him to give it up, but for reminding him of what else he’d been missing. Lance had wormed his way into parts of Keith’s heart he’d closed off, locked up tight. Lance had eased the wounded animal of his pride out of the underbrush and soothed it back to contentment, helped it trust and hope and love again. Keith owes him so much, and he would spend the rest of his life paying Lance back.

As Keith continues to play, he continues to imagine. The feel of Lance’s lips, his hands. The look in his eyes when he’s happy, when he’s scared, when he’s excited or sad. The sound of his laughter, his gasps, his sighs. Keith imagines Lance’s hands are on his shoulders, keeping him grounded, giving him courage to press on, to finish. He imagines Lance whispering in his ear, telling him how much he loves him, how everything is going to be okay. He imagines Lance placing a kiss to the top of his head, a soft press of lips into his hair.

 _You’re doing great_ , he can feel Lance saying into the curve of his neck. _I’m so proud of you._

_Thank you for playing for me_ , he can hear Lance whispering by the shell of his ear. _Thank you for doing your best._

The words sound like prayers, like promises.

By the time Keith reaches the end of the piece, his heart feels full to bursting, the final notes lingering in the air as though, if he keeps them sustained long enough, Lance might hear them. Distantly, Keith realizes his cheeks are wet, his eyes blurry with freshly fallen tears. He releases the pedal, and the song ends, the notes fading away to nothing.

And with them, so does the feel of Lance’s lips against his cheek.

.x.X.x.

Shiro is waiting for him backstage as soon as his performance is over, Keith walking away from the piano so dazed he nearly forgets to bow to the judges. Not that he cares about the competition standings, that’s not why he’s here, but he offhandedly can’t help but recognize that it was the best performance he’s ever given. He genuinely has a shot at first place. Something Shiro must also be able to sense, because no sooner has the backstage door closed before Shiro’s arms are around him, crushing Keith close to his chest.

“I’ve never heard you play like that,” Shiro breathes, voice stunned and practically beaming with pride. “It was incredible.”

“I barely remember playing,” Keith says into Shiro’s shoulder without thinking, and even though it’s true, he can’t stop the way his face heats at the admission. Shiro chuckles, body vibrating against Keith’s before he lets go. With a fond smile, Shiro holds Keith out at arm’s length, squeezing his shoulders.

“You did great. And I’m sure Lance will think so too.” When Keith just raises an eyebrow at him in confusion, Shiro grins. “I took a video of it for him to see when he gets out of surgery. You know. For posterity’s sake.”

The already prominent blush on Keith’s face increases tenfold, a groan escaping Keith’s lips in the form of Shiro’s name. Shiro only laughs.

After one more hug, Shiro finally lets Keith go, expression soft and kind. “Lance should be in surgery for another couple of hours,” he says, reading the tension in Keith’s body, the distracted flit of his gaze. “Do you want to stay for the competition results, or head back to the hospital now?”

He doesn’t even need to think about it.

.x.X.x.

As Shiro had assumed, by the time Keith and he arrive, Lance still has what they guess to be a little less than two hours left of his surgery. There seems to be an entire army of McClains in the waiting area, Lance’s mother and father chatting with each other over crappy hospital coffee, his younger brothers both leaning over a Nintendo Switch. Keith sees Pidge and Hunk having a conversation with Lance’s older sister, and the moment he’s in reach, her eyes instantly latch on to him and hold. As much as he tries not to let it show, he can’t help but fluster under that gaze. By the sudden glint in her eyes, she notices anyway.

“You must be Keith,” Eva says the moment he’s within earshot. Keith nods, holding out a hand in what he hopes is a polite gesture; he’s not used to this, meeting new people who already know who he is. And, to make matters worse, she completely avoids his outstretched hand and instead envelops him in a bone-crushing embrace. It’s a short hug, but a fierce one, and when she lets him go, he can’t help but stagger a bit. Pidge and Hunk don’t bother hiding their amusement. “You’re pretty much all my brother talks about these days.”

“How’s he doing?” Keith asks once he’s managed to get the heat in his cheeks under control. The mischievous look in Eva’s eyes softens, her smile growing fond.

“No word yet,” she says. “But they’re still in surgery. We won’t know anything until it’s over.” The flash of worry must show on his face, because Pidge is suddenly reaching over to grab his hand, Hunk’s grip already strong and steadying on his shoulder. “He’ll be alright, Keith. We just need to have faith.”

An hour passes uneventfully, mostly marked by the rising level of Keith’s anxiety. Despite the way that Pidge and Hunk try to keep him and themselves distracted, each second without word on the surgery just leaves Keith feeling antsier. Once the second hour starts creeping in, it takes everything Keith has not to find the nearest doctor and strangle some information out of them. Which is why, when Lance’s mom tells him to take a break, go downstairs to the café and grab a coffee or some food, he doesn’t have the heart to say no. He knows what he must look like, knows his own practically tangible concerns aren’t doing anything to help the more silent ones of Lance’s family.

And as much as he wants to be here as soon as Lance is out, he can’t just sit around anymore either. It’s driving him crazy.

It’s as he’s waiting in line that he remembers, his jacket half off before he hears the crinkle of paper. He’d nearly forgotten, too distracted by the approaching operation deadline, but suddenly it’s all he can think about. So, after grabbing a coffee, Keith sits himself down at a table and pulls out the letter, admiring his name in Lance’s messy scrawl before ripping the envelope open. It’s a single page, filled front to back with Lance’s words, and as Keith reads, his whole world starts to fall apart.

.x.X.x.

_Hey, Keith. So, um… Here’s the thing._

_I know you’re going to be mad at me, but please try not to be._

_Wow… I really don’t know where to start. There’s so much I need to tell you, and honestly, so much I should have probably already told you, but it doesn’t feel like enough space, you know? I don’t feel like I have enough time. Like writing it down isn’t gonna do it justice._

_Sorry. I’m rambling._

_I guess I’ll just… start from the beginning or something. Okay. Here it goes._

_I was supposed to play the piano. In fact, I took lessons until I was eight. My mom taught me mostly, and she had it in her mind that I’d be this prodigy or something. Like Mozart. She took me to all sorts of recitals and had me play for her friends, but I barely remember any of it. Know why? Because one recital, sitting in the audience watching you completely destroy the competition, and suddenly nothing else mattered. It was like watching someone harness lightning. You were barely my age and you played like the music was a part of you. You made it seem effortless. It was almost scary, dude. But I couldn’t look away._

_At first, I thought I wanted to be your rival. I practiced harder than I ever had. But all it took was one competition against you and I knew that wasn’t it. You kicked my ass and I wasn’t even upset. All I knew was that I wanted to be on stage with you, not competing against you. You had such talent, such passion, even while blowing us all out of the water. And afterwards, you just left, like it was all in a day’s work. I tried to find you after, to congratulate you on your win. I wanted to hear your voice, shake your hand, something. I think I was already falling for you, even then. Did you know that? Yeah. Probably not. You probably don’t even remember that day, do you?_

_Anyway. From that moment on, I started playing the violin. I thought, maybe, if I could get good enough, you would notice. I thought, maybe if I practiced hard enough, you would see me at a competition and feel even a fraction of what I’d felt when I saw you. I thought, maybe if I you did, we could play together. Make beautiful music together… As corny as that sounds, I wanted it more than anything. I wanted to be your partner. I wanted us to kick the music industry’s ass together. For a year, it was all I could think about._

_Sometimes I wonder if I pushed myself too hard._

_Not that I blame you, or anything! I’m competitive by nature. And that’s around the time I got diagnosed, you know? I still practiced though. To be honest, it was the only thing that kept me going most of the time. It was probably childish and definitely naïve but… it felt like I couldn’t die until I’d played with you. Like my heart wasn’t allowed to bite it until that silly dream of mine came true. Well. Maybe not so silly. It was a dream come true after all, finally playing with you. Even if getting you to accompany my jury was like pulling teeth._

_I understand though. Please don’t ever think that I don’t. I just… When I heard you’d quit? When you fell off the face of the earth for a year and word spread that you’d dropped out of competitions, I couldn’t believe it. It didn’t seem possible. And I know why you did it, I know you were heartbroken and scared, but the idea that you might never play again? I couldn’t let that happen, Keith. Not to you. Not to someone who harnesses lightning and plays like music personified. It wouldn’t have just been a waste, it would have been a tragedy._

_And not just because I hadn’t played with you yet. I still wanted to then, don’t get me wrong, but it was more than that. When I realized we were enrolling in the same college, I figured I might be able to talk some sense into you. Or **play** some sense into you, I guess. I know I sound a little stalkery and definitely a bit high and mighty, but it felt like my purpose in life. It felt like the reason I’d been allowed to live so long. To remind you of what you’d be giving up. _

_Sorry for being so pushy, by the way. I hope the end game has been worth it to you._

_You see, even if I hadn’t gotten to play with you these last couple of months, it would have been worth it to me. Seeing you perform again, knowing that you’re competing again… I needed to know that. I needed to know just in case I ~~don’t~~_

_Regardless, I wanted you to know. I’m writing this because I need you to know that I’ve admired you since before you even knew who I was. You’ve made me a better player and you’ve made me a better person. Playing with you has been everything I hoped it would be, and knowing that you’ll keep playing long after I’m ~~no longer~~_

_Knowing that you won’t give up… That gives me strength. Knowing that you’ve gotten that part of yourself back, that in some small way I’ve left a bit of myself behind in that… It makes me happier than I could ever express. So. Just know that, no matter what happens, everything I’ve done has been worth it. And I hope you feel the same._

_You know, these last few months have been the best months of my life. You’ve been such an important part of my life for so long that I just never imagined… I never thought things would end up this way. It seems so impossible but so perfect and special and exactly as it should be, you know that? Like everything has been leading me here, since that first piano competition when I was eight years old._

_I guess… what all this rambling is supposed to amount to is… I’ve been in love with you for a long, long time, Keith. I just needed you to hear it from me. I needed you to know that you’re the reason I’ve practiced so hard and tried so hard and if I don’t ~~make it~~_

_You’re the most important person in my life. You mean the world to me, and I just needed you to know how much I love you, okay? I needed you to know how much you’ve done for me. It makes me happy, knowing that you’ll be alright, that you’ll still play even if ~~the surgery doesn't~~_

_Well. Yeah. This letter was way harder to write than I thought it would be. And it’s probably gone on way too long. But just, if you get anything out of this at all. Tldr; and all that. Remember this._

_I love you. I love you so much, and will continue to love you even after I’m gone, afterlife be damned. So no matter what happens, never stop playing. Keep practicing, keep performing, keep getting better and better and one day, show the world exactly how amazing you are. Because you are amazing, Keith. The most amazing pianist and the most amazing person I’ve ever had the privilege of getting to call the love of my life. And knowing that you love me back? God._

_I’ve been so lucky._

_So anyway. You’re gonna kill it at the competition, babe. And no matter what happens, at risk of sounding like a cheesy RomCom, please know that I’ll always be with you. Always. Not even death could keep me away from that fine ass._

_I love you, Keith. God I love you so much. So please don’t let yourself give up on your passion again. Not for me, not for anyone. Okay?_

_And thank you. Thank you so much for everything._

_I love you._

_Lance_

.x.X.x.

By the time Keith gets to the bottom of the back page, his eyes are so blurred from tears he can barely read the words. But he doesn’t have to. They’re burned into him regardless, a match struck against his ribs that lights his heart on fire, sets it to burning. He’s pretty sure he’s about to have a panic attack, the tell tale signs not just creeping in, but steam rolling over him.

Because even without saying it, even without putting it into words, it’s obvious what Lance was trying to say. It’s written in every line, screaming out to him from every, “I love you.”

Lance went into this surgery not thinking he was going to make it.

Lance was expecting to die.

“No,” Keith wheezes, stumbling over his feet in his attempt to get up, turn around, get to the elevator. He has to get back up there, he has to get back to him. He barely even hears the sound of his coffee hitting the tile floor, barely feels the letter crumple as Keith grips his hand painfully, mindlessly tight around it.

Somewhere in the back of his head, Keith remembers that older relative of his first foster family, remembers visiting him in the hospital during one of his stays. He remembers wondering allowed, as little kids do, if the unfamiliar old man was going to die.

 _“Not Gramps,”_ his temporary foster sister had said. _“He’s a fighter. He’ll probably live to be a hundred and two.”_

That’s what Keith had always thought Lance was. A fighter. Something like a heart transplant can’t take Lance away. He’s stronger than that. He’ll keep fighting. He’ll fight his way back every time. Every time.

But then why? Why does his letter read like he’d already given up? Why does it sound like a Last Fucking Will and Testament? Why would Lance say all these things if he was just going to fight to stay alive, fight to tell him later, fight to say, “I love you,” to Keith every day for the rest of their lives?

Unless.

Unless Lance hadn’t planned on fighting this time. Unless he knew it wouldn’t be enough.

“No, no, no…” Keith’s hands are shaking as he presses the button for the elevator once, twice, repeatedly, practically stabbing it with his index finger hard enough to pop the joint in his first knuckle. He looks up, the number six darkening to make way for an illuminated number five. It’s not moving fast enough. He’s not getting up there _fast enough_.

Abandoning the elevator with a growl, Keith books it for the stairs, getting halfway up the first flight when he hears the tell tale ding of the elevator’s arrival. For half a second, he’s torn between just rushing up the stairs and turning back around, but his decision is quickly made for him.

“Keith?” Pidge’s voice calls out from the lobby. Keith is out of the stairwell and sprinting back in an instant.

“Pidge!” He shouts as he barrels towards her, Hunk not far behind. The elevator is closing behind them, their heads snapping in his direction as he nearly collides full force into them both. Hunk graciously grabs his shoulders, keeping him upright and protecting Pidge from the onslaught in the process. Keith rambles, frantic. “Hunk… Pidge… Lance, he… He doesn’t…” He can’t seem to get the words out, his head spinning. He feels like he’s going to pass out. “I can’t… I c-can’t lose him t-too, I-”

Oh god. He’s about to start crying.

He can feel it start deep in his chest, can practically follow the crawl of it all the way up his throat, pushing through gritted teeth into an ugly sob. At one point, his head falls into Hunk’s shoulder, his whole body shaking. 

“He didn’t think… He didn’t think he w-was going to make it. Why? Why w-would he think that? He can’t. He’s too s-strong for that and I… I don’t know if I… I’m n-not strong enough to-”

His words break off in another pitiful sob. Even when he forces himself to stop talking, the sound of his own agony echoes in loud sniffles, even louder whimpers. Because he’s _not_ strong enough. If Lance went into this already giving up… If Lance had no intention of coming back to him… Keith’s pretty sure he’s not strong enough to survive it.

“Keith, listen-” Pidge starts, but Keith just shakes his head, holding the letter out to her with shaking hands. He doesn’t see her grab it, face buried in Hunk’s chest as it is, but he feels it leave his death grip with some not unsubstantial force. As Pidge reads, Hunk rubs circles into his back murmuring that it’s going to be okay, everything will be okay. But how could it? How could it when he-?

A thought strikes him with enough force to leave him reeling. With a gasp, Keith pulls away from Hunk, though his grip never removes itself from Keith’s shoulders. He decides that it’s a welcome comfort, even if their presence might not turn out to be.

“What are you guys doing down here? Is the surgery…? Did Lance-?”

“That asshole,” Pidge cuts him off, finally done reading the letter, it seems. When Keith looks at her, he notices her face streaked with tears, her smile wobbly. God… God no.

“Keith,” Hunk drags his attention back, the motion feeling sluggish, every detail dragging by in a disconnected sort of slow motion. “We came down here to get you.”

“Why?” Keith whispers, voice raw and terrified. “Is he…? P-Please don’t tell me h-he…”

“Keith,” Hunk repeats his name, voice soft and… and surprisingly calm. His eyes are also shining, cheeks also wet, but less so. Drying tears, not freshly fallen. “Keith, he’s stable. The surgery went fine.”

_He’s stable. It went fine._

_He’s alive._

Without warning, Keith’s knees buckle, Hunk’s grip the only thing keeping him from collapsing into an undignified heap. And even then, he still manages to find himself sitting on the floor, tears of panic morphing almost dizzily into tears of pure, unabashed relief. He’s alive. He’s _alive._

Pidge and Hunk follow him to the floor, both of them gripping his arms reassuringly, letting him cry it out. It doesn’t take long at all for his frazzled mind to settle, even if his tears refuse to.

“That son of a b-bitch,” Keith wheezes, half laughing, half practically sniveling. He must look like a complete mess, but Pidge and Hunk only continue to hold him together, smiling when he regains enough composure to recapture their gaze.

“You’re telling me,” Pidge agrees, handing Hunk the letter. “I get that he was covering all his bases and shit, but this was kind of a dumb move.”

“R-Right?” Keith sniffs, running a hand over his face. It comes away wet, and his nose is embarrassingly runny, but none of that matters. Nothing else in the world matters. “Is he really…?” Keith whispers, reaching up to put his dry, snotless hand over Pidge’s, looking from her to Hunk and back. Hunk nods, eyes watering again, and Pidge grins wide, happier than he’s ever seen her.

“He’s not awake,” she says. “Won’t be for a while yet, but he’s stable. He’s gonna be fine, Keith. That asshole is gonna be just fine.”

.x.X.x.

True to what Pidge said, it takes another couple of hours before Lance wakes up, and then another from there before he’s cognizant enough for visitors. His parents go in first, eventually allowing for the rest of the McClain clan to follow.

Apparently, at one point during the initial stages of the surgery, Lance had flat lined. Gone for a solid two minutes. Keith tries not to think of the feel of lips against his hair, his cheek, his ear. He tries not to think of how clear those words had seemed in the moment.

_Thank you for playing for me. Thank you for doing your best._

And more than anything, he tries not to think about those two minutes, minutes that might have cost Lance his violin. Minutes that might have cost them both the chance to play together again.

Not that it matters, Keith decides almost as instantly as he feels the beginning of that particular regret. Lance has never been just a violin to him. He’s so much more. Everything more. If the doctors say Lance will need physical therapy, Keith will be there to help him through it. If the doctors say he’ll never play again, Keith will be there to help him through that too. As long as Lance will have him, Keith has no intention of going anywhere. Violin or no violin.

After what feels like a mini eternity, Keith is finally given permission to see him.

In a way, it’s almost reminiscent of their last visit. If not for the way Lance only groggily manages to turn his head, the IVs and tubes almost doubling in comparison, it would feel kind of like deja-vu. Lance still smiles when he sees Keith, his parents ushering themselves out of the room to give them a moment alone.

“Hey there, Piano Man,” Lance croaks, a rough and painful sound that settles around Keith’s heart like a vice.

It takes everything he has not to cry when he mumbles his own soft, relieved, “Hey.”

With what looks like a substantial amount of effort, Lance picks his hand up from the bed and reaches towards him. Keith covers the distance at once, intertwining their fingers and squeezing. For a long moment, they only stare at each other, soft smiles wobbling just slightly with emotion, eyes brimming with tears but not spilling, not quite yet. 

It’s a testament to how many painkillers Lance must be on that he breaks the silence not with words of love or comfort, but with a giggly, “You’re gonna have to be careful with those heart stopping good looks of yours from now on. I should probably try to make this one last.”

Well. So much for not crying.

Keith laughs, the sound wet and choked off as tears finally escape down his cheeks. “You’re s-such and ass,” he sniffs, using the hand not gripping tightly at Lance’s to wipe fruitlessly at his face.

“Aw, come on, babe,” Lance rubs his thumb over Keith’s knuckles, voice unsure. “I was just joking.”

“Not your dumbass joke, you d-dumbass,” Keith rolls his eyes, though it only manages to cause another few tears to fall free. When he manages to force his attention back to his boyfriend, Lance is looking at him with an adorable mix of confusion and concern. Without further explanation, Keith reaches into his pocket and pulls out the crumpled letter. Lance eyes it for a long moment before it seems to register.

“You read my letter,” he says, blinking slow.

“I read your dumbass letter.”

“Three dumbasses in under a minute,” Lance whispers, eyes never leaving the crumpled up piece of paper in Keith’s hand. A blush has started to spread from his cheeks to his neck. “That must be a new record.”

“How could you have possibly thought this was a good idea, huh?” Keith pushes on, not taking the bait despite how much he feels like throwing snark right back in Lance’s face. Lance seems to sense the seriousness, the smirk making way for a look of chided embarrassment instead.

“I needed you to know everything,” he says after a while, turning his head to look at the ceiling. “Just in case.”

“It read like… Like you were giving up.”

“I didn’t mean for it to.”

For another long stretch of silence, Keith just watches Lance, watches him close his eyes and take a deep breath, watches the exact moment when Lance cracks a bit, his own eyes watering and spilling over.

“I just couldn’t go under without knowing that… That you’d get to hear all that from me, okay? I didn’t want something to happen to me and have you not know- Not know how much I- How _long_ I’ve-” 

Lance’s words seem to tangle in his throat, a painful sounding wheeze crawling up from his chest that makes Keith’s veins run cold. With a soft shush, Keith sits on the edge of Lance’s bed and places a comforting hand on his shoulder, rubbing what he hopes is soothing circles into his collarbone. Lance doesn’t stop crying, not right away, but his breathing does even out, his eyes latching on to Keith with a pleading look. 

Keith tries for a smile, his own voice still wobbly when he says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… I don’t want to upset you. I really appreciate you telling me. Thank you.” And then, Keith leans forward, placing a long kiss to Lance’s forehead, leaving his lips to lightly brush against the crease between his brow. “I love you too,” he says. “I love you so much. I was just… I was so scared I might lose you.”

Keith feels Lance shift beneath him, an arm coming up to wrap around Keith’s neck, pulling him into an awkward but deep and desperate hug.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispers against Keith’s ear, and the words untangle the last threads of worry around his lungs, lift the final remnants of heavy fear from his shoulders. For the first time in ages, Keith feels true relief. Even as he breaks apart, burying his head in Lance’s shoulder with a soft cry, for the first time in ages, Keith’s heart beats freely.

.x.X.x.

Rehab isn’t easy, especially for Lance.

For someone so bursting with energy, so eager to succeed, taking things slowly is almost physically painful for him it would seem. Keith is there for every session, and more than once, that arrangement ends in arguments, screaming matches, and more often than not in frustrated breakdowns. That doesn’t stop Keith from pulling Lance back up, however, and that never deters Lance from trying his best, from doing everything he can to overcome the nerve damage.

The first time he holds his violin again, it’s with mixed emotions.

His hands still tremble slightly, and holding his bow for too long makes his wrist hurt, but he manages to scratch out the beginnings of a melody. By no means even close to his old level of skill, but it’s a start, and when Lance looks at Keith after the attempt, it’s not with disappointment but with a determined passion he hasn’t seen in far too long.

After that, it’s a steady uphill climb.

Setbacks are few and far between, if not still a constant presence, and Lance takes them all in stride. Except for when he can’t.

“Every time I think I’m getting better, I start making the same fucking mistakes,” Lance hisses, kicking at the edge of his bed. “I played so much better last week! Why the hell can’t I keep this shit consistent?” This time, after a frustrated kick to his nightstand, Keith gets up and grabs Lance by the shoulders, turning him around. As expected, Lance refuses to look at him.

“Calm down,” Keith says softly, but Lance just huffs. Keith tries not to let it bother him. “You’re still healing.”

“I know that!” Lance barks, instantly recoiling in Keith’s arms when the volume of his outburst ends up being louder than he must have intended it. He takes a breath, looking at the floor as he tries again. “I know that. I just… I hate not having as much control as I used to.”

“You’ll get it back,” Keith tries, squeezing Lance’s shoulders comfortingly. “You’re doing way better than you-” 

“Not just with this,” Lance cuts him off, glancing up with a pleading, almost terrified expression. “With _everything_.”

Keith has grown used to Lance’s tells, especially with as much time as they’ve been spending together over the months since Lance’s surgery. Right now, with the way Lance’s brow is furrowed, the way his bottom lip is trembling just slightly, Keith can sense the breakdown inching ever closer.

So Keith cuts it off at the pass, pulling Lance into a tight, almost suffocating hug.

“Hey. It’s alright. You’re gonna be alright.”

“How is any of this alright?” The words are muffled into the fabric of Keith’s shirt, Lance slumping over to bury his face in Keith’s shoulder. Keith just runs his hands up and down Lance’s back, trying to keep his voice light and soothing.

“Because you’re alive,” Keith says, a familiar argument. “You’re still here, and you’re not alone. We’re in this together, aren’t we?”

After a stretch of stubborn silence, Keith feels Lance deflate against him, his hands finally raising to grip at Keith’s waist and neck. “Yeah. We are.”

“No matter what happens,” Keith repeats, a mantra of theirs since the first and hardest days of physical therapy. Lance nods his head against Keith’s neck, his hair tickling the skin below Keith’s ear.

“No matter what.”

.x.X.x.

Eventually, with time and patience, the good days outweigh the bad. Eventually, with time and patience, Lance begins to play again, a little from time to time, to every week, every day. The progress becomes obvious, if not still a little slow for Lance’s taste.

Keith is pretty sure he’ll never get tired of waking up to the sound of Lance playing simple melodies from the dorm’s common room. He’s pretty sure the look on Lance’s face as he practices, eyes closed and lips parted in deep conversation, will never fail to make his heart flutter. 

He’s also pretty sure he’ll never forget the moment Lance throws himself into bed, straddling Keith with an exuberant shout that wakes him instantly.

“Keith, Keith, Keith, listen!” He’s saying, bouncing excitedly in place on top of Keith’s chest. Keith lets out an _oof_ with each motion, but outside of grabbing Lance’s hips to hold him in place, he doesn’t make to push the wiggling ball of enthusiasm off of him.

“Okay, okay!” Keith half laughs, half grunts. “I’m up. What do you want to-?” 

But Lance doesn’t even bother to let him finish, raising bow and violin into place and playing a few measures of a piece Keith recognizes from physical therapy, a simple practice concerto that Lance says he’s played a million times. But this time, the look on Lance’s face is eager, confident, and Keith swears Lance must be able to feel Keith’s heart trying to beat its way through his chest.

It’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and it isn’t until that moment that Keith realizes a part of him had legitimately thought he might never get to see it again.

When Lance finishes the brief measures, he looks down at Keith expectantly, eyes wide and smile almost giddy. “Well?” he says, when Keith can’t find his words fast enough. “Did you hear it?”

Keith can’t really say he did, too distracted by the sight of Lance, of his fluid movements and relaxed features, so similar but almost unfamiliar after months of tension and grueling rehab. Before he can say anything at all, however, Lance puts his violin down and places both hands on Keith’s chest.

“You had to have heard it, right? The vibrato? Keith. Keith! That was _my_ vibrato!”

“Your-”

“I couldn’t do it before! It always sounded so scratchy and barely there, or like a tremolo, right? But that…” Lance takes a breath, expression morphing into such relieved, soft happiness, that Keith can’t help but gasp in quiet awe. “I got it back, babe. I… That vibrato was _mine_. I felt it.”

Keith barely waits for Lance to finish speaking before pulling him down, luring him in. They kiss deep and long, an intimate press of lips that Keith hopes tells Lance everything he doesn’t have the words for: how happy he is, how proud he is, how utterly and irrevocably in love he is.

It’s nowhere near perfect, still many miles left to travel, but it feels like a step in the right direction. It feels like its own little bit of success.

.x.X.x.

“Come on, Keith,” Lance yawns, dragging his feet as Keith lures him down the hall. “I’m all about surprises, but a practice room on a Saturday morning is kinda killin’ it for me.”

“I know,” Keith chuckles, too excited to really feel guilty. “I just couldn’t wait.”

Lance grunts in response, tightening his grip on his violin case. “I demand comfy couch cuddles after.”

“I booked the room for an hour.”

“Fifty-five minutes of comfy couch cuddles then,” Lance huffs.

“If five minutes is all you’ve got in you,” Keith shrugs, smirking. “Everyone has off days.”

“Har har. Keith made a sex joke. I’m so proud.” And even though the sarcasm in Lance’s voice is prevalent, Keith can still hear the truth beneath it.

Once they’ve situated themselves in the practice room, Lance’s violin tuned and Keith adjusted in front of the keys, the atmosphere grows anticipatory. So, before Lance can ask any questions, Keith clears his throat, running a finger lightly over the B flat.

“I thought, since you’ve been practicing so hard, that I should… I don’t know. Practice something too. You know. To surprise you.”

Lance cocks his head for a second, mulling that over before breaking out into a grin. “You learned a piece for me?”

Keith can’t help the blush that heats his cheeks, his eyes firmly glued to the keys. “It’s nothing special. Don’t get your hopes up or anything, it’s just…” With a deep breath, Keith looks over at Lance and explains.

“This song means a lot to me. It’s kind of… what started everything in a way, you know? It was what made me realize you were something special, even if I didn’t realize how special you were going to become to _me_ at the time. So, yeah. I know I’m not very good at this kind of genre or anything, but I wanted to-”

“Keith,” Lance cuts him off with a smile, looking from him to the piano and back. “Just play it for me. Please?”

“Okay,” Keith nods, taking another deep breath before lowering his hands in place. “Okay.”

The melody isn’t instantly familiar to Lance it would seem, but the moment it starts to register, Keith sees his eyes light up, his whole posture shifting in Keith’s periphery.

“Keith…” He whispers. “Is this…?”

Keith nods, playing through the first verse and easily flowing into the chorus. “You gonna join me or what?”

Lance startles at that, as if forgetting he was meant to do more than listen. With a breath and a straightening of his back, Lance begins, playing the melody overtop of Keith’s now more harmonious accompaniment.

The memory surrounds him, Lance’s whirlwind of a performance all that time ago at the Music At Midnight concert, the tune to Sia’s Chandelier sticking in Keith’s head for what felt like weeks. To quote Lance, it was like watching someone harness lightning.

When they reach the bridge, Keith glances over, heart stuttering when he finds Lance already looking back, face open and full of love. There’s not doubt in Keith’s mind then, never has been really, when he thinks about it. This is where they belong, making beautiful music together, as corny as that may sound. And even if Lance is never satisfied with himself, even if he pushes too hard or demands too much in attempts to get back to where he was, Keith will always be there to hold him back or ease him through. They’ll always have this and they’ll always have each other. Always.

Life is funny that way, complicated and easy in the same breath, breaking apart only to remake itself into something even more beautiful in the process. Somehow, Keith and Lance managed to break each other down, scatter the other into pieces that fit back together again as one elaborate and stunning piece of composition. Not quite an Etude and not quite a top forty hit. Not quite improv and not quite counterpoint. 

Somehow, they’ve managed to blend into one perfectly imperfect symphony, a brilliant cacophony of orchestral sound conducted not by one maestro, but two. 

It’s not always easy, and there are still hurdles that will need jumping, but in this moment, just the two of them, Keith is certain. In this moment, Keith decides that no matter what happens next, no matter what the struggles may be, it will be worth it. Lance will always be worth it.

Because to Keith, Lance is music. 

And music is love. Plain and simple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endings are hard.
> 
> I can't even begin to thank everyone who stuck with me on this one. Especially if you're fans of Your Lie in April, knowing full well how that ends. Surprise! But not so much of one, I guess, since I didn't put it in the tags, but yeah. I couldn't kill him, my dudes. I just couldn't.
> 
> Anyway, to all of you who've been there since the beginning, I hope this ending is good enough. It's been a roller coaster to write and at times, as it often will, real life got in the way. But I'm so, so happy with how it turned out. And I'm so, so happy that there are still a few of you sticking around to read it.
> 
> As is customary at this point, here's a video! It's not quite at the technical level I imagine the boys to be playing at, but perhaps that's fitting. In the end, we're all still growing.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_J4YcfPVr8s
> 
> All my love and all my thanks, my darlings. Until next time.


End file.
